WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 




Class 



pi 



Book : 






Copyright^? 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



BORDERLANDS AND 
THOROUGHFARES 



BY 
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 

AUTHOR OF " DAILY BREAD," "FIRES," ETC. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1914 

All rights reserved 






COPTBIOHT, 1914, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1914. 



SE* 29 1314 

©CU379723 



TO MY WIFE 



M .. . * 



So long had I travelled the lonely road, 
Though, now and again, a wayfaring friend 
Walked shoulder to shoulder, and lightened the 

load, 
I often would think to myself as I strode, 
No comrade will journey with you to the end. 

And it seemed to me, as the days went past, 
And I gossiped with cronies, or brooded alone, 
By wayside fires, that my fortune was cast 
To sojourn by other men's hearths to the last, 
And never to come to my own hearthstone. 

The lonely road no longer I roam. 
We met, and were one in the heart's desire. 
Together we came, through the wintry gloam, 
To the little old house by the cross-ways, home; 
And crossed the threshold, and kindled the fire. 



Vll 



CONTENTS 

BORDERLANDS 

PAGE 

The Queen's Crags 1 

Bloodybush Edge 41 

Hoops 100 

THOROUGHFARES 

Solway Ford 133 

A Catch for Singing 140 

Geraniums 142 

The Whisperers 145 

Mabel 147 

The Vixen 150 

The Lodging House 154 

The Ice 156 

Woolgathering 157 

The Tram 158 

On the Embankment 160 

The Dancers 162 

The Wind 163 

[ix] 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Vindictive Staircase, or The Reward 

of Industry 164 

Ragamuffins 169 

The Alarum 171 

In a Restaurant 172 

The Greeting 173 

Wheels 174 

Prometheus 181 

Night . . 182 

On Hampstead Heath 184 

A Vision in a Tea-shop 185 

Lines Addressed to the Spectre of an 

Elderly Gentleman, etc 186 

The Dreadnought 188 

Sight 190 

The Gorse 191 



[x] 



BORDERLANDS 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 

SCENE : The Queen's Crags, a fantastic group of 
rocks and boulders on the fells. Michael 
Crozier, a young hind, lies in the evening 
glow at the foot of the tallest crag, with a far- 
away look in his eyes. Presently George 
Dodd, an old hind, enters and stops on 
seeing Michael. 

George 

Of all the lazy louts! 

It's here, then, that you moon away the 

evenings, 
Stretched like a collie, basking in the sun, 
Your noble self for company! 
At your age, Michael, lad, 
Fid have thought shame to find myself alone, 
A night like this: 

And such a lass as Peggie, lonesome, too. 

[1] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

I wasted little time, when I was young; 

And lost no Summer evenings by myself. 

I always was a lad among the lasses, 

And not a moony, moping gowk like you. 

No sooner was I through, 

Than I was washed and out. 

Sunlight, moonlight, starlight, dark, 

I never missed the screeching of the owls, 

Nor listened to it lonesome. 

But you, I've never seen you with a lass: 

Though Peggie Haliburton, she . . . 

Lad, take your pleasure, while you're young, 

And Summer nights be fine. 

Though youth and Summer nights seem long — ■ 

Long enough to last for ever, 

For ever and a day, 

Before you've looked about a bit, 

Old age and Winter are upon you. 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



To-day you're lithe and lusty, 

And to-morrow, 

A grizzled, pithless, aching bag-of-bones. 

And Peggie Haliburton, too, 

The lass was made for love and Summer nights : 

Yet she's out walking with herself, 

And no one by to see her but the peewits, 

Or, maybe, a cock grouse or so: 

A bonnie young thing wasting. 

{He pauses, looking at Michael, who pays little 
heed, but still lies with a far-away look in his 
eyes.) 

But, maybe, Michael, you're like me, 

And cannot 'bide red hair? 

I never liked a red-haired wench, 

If there was any other by. 

Red . . . it's the colour of the fox and 

kestrel, 

[3] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And stoat and weasel, and such thieves and 

vermin. 
And, as for stock, if I could have my way, 
I shouldn't have a red beast on the farm. 
Fid never let a chestnut stallion whinny 
Within a mile of Skarlindyke. 
Fid sell all chestnut colts and fillies: 
The red bull, too, should go: 
And no red heifer should come nigh the 

byres. 

Fid have all black, coal-black: 

Black stallions and black mares: 

Black bulls, black stirks and heifers: 

All black, save tups and ewes: 

I'm somehow not so partial to black sheep. 

But, in this world, we cannot all be farmers, 

And lords of all creation. 

Still, even hinds may have their fancies: 

[4] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



And you and I, lad, cannot 'bide red hair: 

And so, red Peggy walks alone. 

Ay! and it seems that hinds can hold their 

tongues, 
At least, the youngsters can; 
For my old tongue keeps wagging, 
And wags to little purpose seemingly. 
It must have lost its sting; 
Or, Peggy's not in favour. 

(A pause.) 

Well, Mister Mum, you've chosen a snug 

corner 
To stretch your lazy bones in. 

(Sitting down by Michael, with his back against 
the rock.) 

I think I'll bear you company awhile, 
If you can call a hedgehog company, 

[5] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Tight-curled, and prickles bristling! 

Still, though you mayn't be over-lively, 

You're livelier than Myself. 

I find him but glum company — 

A grumpy, sulky beggar, 

Who keeps on telling me I'm getting old, 

And 'minding me of happiness gone by. 

Myself and I were never fellows: 

But ill-yoked at the best of times, 

We seldom pulled together: 

And, Lord! the times that we've upset the 

cart! 
So you must serve to keep the peace between 

us, 
By listening to my chatter. 
I'm always happiest, talking, 
For then I needn't listen to Myself. 
Though I, when I was your age, Michael, 

[6] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



I should have scorned an old man's company, 
While any lass . . . 
And on Midsummer Eve! 

(He pauses again: then resumes, pointing to a pil- 
lared rock, standing apart from the others.) 

So, yon's the tooth, chipped out of the 

Queen's comb, 
When Arthur pitched a rock at her, 
While she was combing out her yellow hair: 
And he, at his own Crags, a mile away! 
It must have been a spanker of a comb, 
To bear so brave a tooth! 
I wonder what she'd said, to make him pitch 

it . . . 
Though likely she'd said nothing, 
But just sat combing out her yellow hair, 
And combing, combing, combing. 

[7] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

A woman with a devil in her tongue, 

When she plays mum, is far more aggravat- 
ing. 

Sometimes, when Susan sits and combs her 
hair, 

At night, like Arthur's Queen, 

And combs, and combs, 

Till I'm half -mad with watching from the bed, 

I only stop Myself, — 

The surly chap who wants the light out, — 

Just in the nick of time 

To loose the pillow from his clutch. 

King Arthur must have been a handsome lad, 

To chuck a pebble that size near a mile. 

But, there were giants in those days: 

And he . . . 

Michael 
A lie! 

[8] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



George 

A lie? Of course, it's all a lie: 

But it's a brave lie, Michael! 

I doubt if there was ever King or Queen, 

In these outlandish parts. 

Michael 

There was a Queen, 

Though she was not a giant. 

She was no bigger than . . . 

Than you, or me . . . 

Or Peggy . . . she was nearer Peggy's height. 

George 

You seem to know a deal about her, Michael. 
Just Peggy's height? 
And red-haired, too, I'll warrant? 
You've found your tongue: 

[9] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And got it pat: 

And all the gospel truth! 

But, how d'you come by so much truth, I 

wonder? 
Scarcely by honest means, I doubt. 
And how d'you know . . . 

Michael 
Because I've seen her. 

George 
Who? 

Michael 
The Queen. 

George 

You've seen the Queen? 

Well, that's a brave one, Michael! 

Myself can sometimes tell a little one; 

[10] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



But he was ever but a craven liar. 

His were but cheepy bantams, barely hatched : 

While yours, why, it's a strutting cock, and 

crowing, 
Comb pricked, and hackles quivering! 
There's nothing like a big, bold, brazen lie 
To warm the blood . . . 



Michael 

I'm telling truth. 
I've seen her twice. 

George 

Nay! stop, before you spoil it all. 
A lie, blown out too big, will burst, 

Michael 
It is no lie . . . 

I saw the Queen, herself. 

mi 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

George 
You saw her . . . where? 



Michael 



I saw her here. 



George 

Here? In the Crags? 

I trust she's not here now: 

And listening down behind the rock. 

Lord! if she'd heard Myself about the comb- 
ing! 

But Queens should be above eavesdropping; 

And know the luck of listeners. 

Though, how d'you know her, lad, for Ar- 
thur's Queen? 

Did she sing out: 

"Hi! lad, I'm Arthur's Queen!" 

[12] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



Michael 

She wore a crown . . . 
A golden crown . . . 

George 

I saw a Queen once, with a golden crown; 

And sitting on a golden throne, 

Set high upon a monster golden ball, 

Drawn in a golden chariot through the streets 

By four-and-twenty little piebald ponies, 

At Hexham, on a fairday, long ago . . . 

Ay, long ago, in my young days, 

When circuses were circuses. 

They made a brave procession through the 

town, 
To draw the folk in after them . . . 
Though outside shows are usually the brav- 
est . . . 

[131 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

But, not that time . . . 

She was a Queen, a black-eyed, gypsy 

Queen . . . 
Black eyes that sparked . . . 
And tilted chin . . . 
You never saw . . . 

Michael 

Mine was no circus-queen. 

I saw her first, when I was but a boy, 

Six years ago, to-day . . . Midsummer 

Eve . . . 
I'd spent the whole day, playing round the 

Crags 
At Kings and castles, 
Crowning or killing, 
Or conquering myself, 

Or putting black-faced bands 

[14] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



Of robber-sheep to rout; 

Or seeking to take, unawares, 

Some traitor stoat or weasel 

That spied on my dominions. 

When, ere I knew, 

The sky was black, 

And broke in flame, 

And burst in thunder . . . 

And rain, such rain . . . 

Lightning, flash on flash . . . 

Thunder, brattle after brattle . . . 

Rain and rain . . . 

You never saw such rain — 

One pelting, crashing, teeming, drenching 

downpour. 
Soaked to the skin, in no time, 
And scared out of my senses, 

I crept into a hole among the rocks, 

[15 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

A hole I'd never spied before, 

No bigger than a fox's earth. 

I had to wriggle on my belly, 

To squeeze myself in, head first; 

And half-expecting, every moment, 

To feel a vixen's teeth, 

Though more I feared the lightning at my 

heels. 
When, all at once, my arms were free: 
And, lifting up my head, I found 
I'd almost crawled into a chamber, 
A big square chamber in the rock, 
That I had ne'er heard tell of — 
Four blue and shiny walls, that soared 
Sheer to the sky — a still and starry sky, 
Though, in the world without, black storm 

was raging. 
But, I'd no eyes for stars, 

r 161 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



Nor even wits to wonder at the quiet. 

My eyes were on the Queen, 

Who sat beside a hearth of burning peats, 

Right in the middle of the chamber; 

A golden crown upon her golden head; 

And she was spinning golden wool, 

That flickered in the firelight, 

Until it seemed that she was spinning flame, 

Or her own fire-bright hair. 

George 

Red hair! And she'd red hair . . . 
Then, you had only snoozed; 
And dreamt of Peggy. 
I saw my queen by daylight. 

Michael 
Peggy! 

I tell you, 'twas the Queen. 

[17] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

I saw her, plainly as I see yon rabbit; 
She wore a furry cloak of weasel skins, 
Or something like, 

Though round the neck 'twas white — 
White as yon rabbit's scut . . . 
For it was mortal cold in that stone cham- 
ber. 

George 
Was anybody with her? 

Michael 

I only saw the Queen, 

And her, but for a moment. 

She lifted up her eyes; 

And I was frightened . . . 

And wriggled backwards like an adder, 

Till I was in the storm again. 

[18 1 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



And then, I scuttled home — 

A rabbit to its warren — 

Across the splashy heather: 

The lightning, playing round my heels, 

The thunder, rattling round my head, 

Though it was not the lightning or the 
thunder 

That scared me now . . . 

I'd not a thought for them . . . 

My heart was flying from that quiet cham- 
ber 

That stone-cold chamber, roofed with quiet 
stars . . . 

And from the eyes . . . 

The eyes I had not seen. 

George 

And where's this stony chamber, then? 

[191 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Michael 

I never found the way to it again, 
Though I've ransacked the Crags for it, 
Since I grew big, and bolder. 

George 

A vixen in her den, 

For she'd be red enough. 

Yet, you'ld have felt her teeth for certain! 

It must have been a dream. 

Michael 

I might have thought so, too, 
Had I not seen the Queen, again. 

George 
Again? 

I saw my Queen, again, too. 

But what was your Queen's name? 

[201 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



Michael 
Queen Guinevere. 

George 

Mine had a braver name. 
They called her, Donna Bella di Braganza, 
Castilian Queen of the Equestrian World. 
I spelled it out upon the rainbow bills 
The clown, who wagged the tail of the pro- 
cession, 
Was scattering from his donkey-cart. 
I saw my Queen again . . . 
My gypsy Queen! 

My black-haired, black-eyed gypsy . . . 
You, and your red-haired Queens! 
I'ld give a world of red-haired Guineveres, 
To see those gypsy eyes again . . . 

(A pause.) 
[211 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

I smell the sawdust now . . . and or- 
anges . . . 

'Twas in the tent . . . 

She'd doffed her robes and crown . . . 

I knew her by the flashing of her eyes, 

Tripping nimbly into the ring, 

So brave in yellow silk, skin-fitting silk, 

Yellow as dandelions, 

And sprinkled all with spangles; 

And yellow ribbons in her hair, 

Her jet-black hair that hung about her shoul- 
ders. 

I see her tripping now into the ring, 

With flashing eyes and teeth, 

Clean-limbed, and mettlesome as the coal- 
black mare, 

Coal-black from mane to fetlocks, 

That pawed and champed to greet her . . . 

[22] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



And there's naught bonnier than a bonnie 
mare . . . 

She clapped its glossy neck: 

It nuzzled her: 

Then ere I knew, 

She'd lighted on its flanks, 

Nimble and springy as a thistle-down: 

And they were racing round the ring to- 
gether, 

She, standing tip-toe, 

And with ne'er a rein, 

A straw between her teeth, 

Her flashing teeth . . . 

And tilted chin . . . 

And flashing eyes . . . 

Her beautiful long hair, as black and silky, 

As black and silky as the mare's long mane, 

Was streaming out behind . . . 

[23] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And ribbons streaming . . . 
Spangles sparkling . . . 
Sawdust flying, 
Whips, a-cracking . . . 
Music, playing . . . 
And now, she sprang 
Through flaming hoops, 
And my heart, through the fire with her, 
And lighted on the steamy flanks: 
And on, and on, 
And round, and round the ring, 
Till I was dazzled dizzy, 
And out of breath, but watching her. 
And what, with crack of whips . . . 
Thudding thresh of hoofs . . . 
Smell of spirting sawdust . . . 
Crash of drums and trumpets • . • 
Flaming hoops of fire . . . 

[241 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



Flying hair . . . 

Yellow ribbons . . . 

Flashing teeth . . . 

And flashing eyes . . . 

My blood was mad, was mad for her, 

I wanted to be flying round, 

For ever flying round with her, 

For ever, and for ever . . . 

I wanted her 

As I have never wanted woman, 

Before or since . . . 

(A pause.) 

And yet, I've little doubt 

That she'd have been a poor hand with the 

porridge, 
And poorer at the milking, 

Though she could manage horses; 

[25 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And, maybe, 'twas as well 

That I walked home that night with Susan. 

Within nine months, we'd wedded. 

There's naught amiss with Susan's porridge, 

And she could milk a stone. 

She's been a good and careful wife enough. 

She never spares herself . . . nor me. 

Though, I dare say, I'm even more a trial 

To her, than to myself. 

And, though I'm often harking back, 

And sometimes hanker . . . 

Somehow, I cannot see the Donna Bella, 

In yellow skin-tights, cleaning out the byre! 

And yet! 

Michael 

I saw Queen Guinevere, again, 

Three years ago, upon Midsummer Eve. 

She sat upon a little hill, and sang: 

[261 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



And combed her long red hair, beside the 
lough — 

Just sitting like a leveret in the sun 

To sleek its fur — 

And all about her, grey snipe darted, drum- 
ming. 

She combed her long red hair 

That tumbled down her shoulders, 

Her long hair, red as bracken, 

As bracken in October; 

And with a gleam of wind in it, 

A light of running water. 

Her crown was in the heather, at her feet: 

And, now and then, a snipe would perch 
upon it; 

And with his long neb preen his gleaming 
feathers, 

As if to mock the Queen, 

[27] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Queen Guinevere, a-combing her long hair 
That tumbled over a gown of blue . . • 
As blue and shimmery as a mallard's neck . • . 
And with a light of running water: 
And, as she sang, 'twas like the curlew call- 
ing, 
And rippled through my heart like curlew 

calling, 
Like curlew calling in the month of April, 
And with a clear cool noise of running water. 

I dropped upon my belly in the bracken: 
And lay and watched her, combing her red 

hair: 
And hearkened to her singing . . . 
And I was sorry, when she'd done, at last, 
And took her long red hair, and twisted it, 

And fixed it with a golden pin. 

[28] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



Though she'd but little need of crown, 
Whose hair was golden crown enough, 
She stooped to take her gold crown from the 

heather, 
And set it on her brow: 
Then stood upright, 
Stood like a birch-tree in the wind, 
A silver birch-tree in the sunset wind 
That ripples through its leaves like running 

water; 
The little snipe about her drumming . . . 
And then, I looked into her eyes, 
Looked into golden pools, 
Pools, golden 'neath October bracken . . . 
And into the heart of fire . . . 

(A pause.) 

A shrew's cold muzzle touched my hand, 

[29] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Among the bracken, startling me . . . 
And she was gone . . . 

George 
(After a pause.) 

And so, the leveret bolted! 

You never saw her more? 

So all tales end . . . 

At least the true tales told by life itself. 

Though I ... I saw my Queen again . . . 

Yet . . . with a difference . . . 

'Twas at the next fair after I was married. 

I thought I'ld like a glimpse of her once more: 

Though I had much ado, persuading Susan; 

She'd never been inside a circus; 

And thought it sorry waste of silver. 

But, once inside the tent, 

She liked it well enough: 

[30] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



And gaped and grinned her money's worth. 

And I ... I sat, and waited, 

And waited for my gypsy . . . 

And snuffed the smell of sawdust: 

While Susan giggled at the clown — 

A yellow-legged old corncrake — 

And nudged me with her elbow; 

And asked me if I'd ever heard the like. 

But, I'd no ears nor eyes 

For any save my gypsy . . . 

And she . . . she never came. 

Another woman rode the coal-black mare — 

A red-haired jumping-jenny — 

And there was cracking whips . . • 

And sawdust flying . . . 

Drums and trumpets . . • 

Flaming hoops . . . 

And all the razzle-dazzle . . . 

[311 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

But not my black-eyed gypsy. 

And I sat, waiting still, when all was over, 

Until the tent was empty . . . 

Sat waiting for the Donna Bella . . . 

Till Susan tugged me by the jacket, 

And asked if Fid sit gaping there all night. 

She got me out, at last. 

And then ... I met her . . . 

Met her, face to face, 

My gypsy Queen! 

But, oh! . . . how changed . . . 

Except her eyes . . . 

I knew her by her eyes: 

For they still flashed and sparkled, 

Though she was bent and hunched^ 

And hobbled with a crutch. 

She'd had a tumble, since I'd seen her flying 

Around the ring, as light as thistle-down. 

[32 1 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



She clutched me with a skinny hand, 

Wanting to tell my fortune: 

But Susan wouldn't let her: 

She said, a married man had got his fortune; 

So needn't waste his earnings. 

The gypsy bit the straw between her teeth, 

Her flashing teeth; 

And, tilting her proud chin, 

She laughed at that, with merry eyes 

Twinkling 'neath her yellow kerchief — 

Dandelion yellow — 

Bound about her jet-black hair, 

The hair that I'd seen flying free • . . 

And when she laughed, 

And looked into my eyes . . . 

The heather was afire . . . 

I could have caught her to me, 

There and then . . .. 

[33] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Whipped her up, and run with her 

To the world's end, and over . . . 

But, Susan . . . dragging on my arm . . . 

Ay! broken as she was, 

And hunched and hobbling, 

I would have wedded her outright, 

Had it not been for Susan . . . 

I lost her in the crowd . . . 

And never saw her more . . . 

(Pause.) 

And so, went home to decent porridge: 

And 'twas as well, maybe. 

A man must have his meat, if he's to work, 

And victuals count for much. 

And Susan's ever been a careful wife, 

And had no easy time of it. 

(Pause.) 
[341 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



But, love's a queer thing, Michael. 
It comes to you . . . like that! 

(Striking his hands together.) 

I've known a man walk seven miles each night 
To see a woman's shadow on the blind. 
And, in the end, 

It's one, and one alone, that holds you, 
Be 't Donna Bella, Guinevere, or Peggy. 

(Pause.) 

But you . . . you never saw your carroty 

Queen, 
Combing her long red hair again, I'll warrant. 

Michael 
(Slowly, as in a trance.) 

I saw her once, upon Midsummer Eve, 
Six years ago . . . 

[35 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

I saw her, twice, upon Midsummer Eve, 
Three years ago . . . 
I'll see her thrice . . . 

George 
And, it's Midsummer Eve! 

Michael 

(Listening.) 

And nigh the hour . . . 

And hark, the snipe a-drumming! 

George 

You cannot think . . . 

It's all a pack of lies . . . 

Or else, you're daft, clean daft! 

Your eyes are queer and wild. . . . 

You do not see her now? 

[36] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



No! No! I thought not! 
It's all stuff and nonsense, 
Your silly tale about a red-haired Queen, 
Who's been dead dust a thousand years, or 
more. 

Michael 
(Leaping to his feet.) 
She's coming . . . coming now . . . 

George 
{Leaping up, too, and gripping Michael's arm.) 

No! No! 

You're crazy, surely . . . 

Yet . . . queer things happen on the fells, at 

times . . . 

And on Midsummer Eve . . . 

[371 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Michael 
(Listening more intently.) 

She's drawing slowly nearer . . . 
I hear her silks a-rustling through the 
grass . . . 

George 

(Listening too.) 

I seem to hear . . . 
What are you gaping at? 

Michael 

(Looking up.) 

The Queen! The Queen! 

(They both stand, spellbound, gazing at a woman 
standing on the crest of a boulder, burning like 
a golden flame in the last rays of the setting 
sun. Presently, looking down, and seeing them, 
she laughs.) 

[38] 



THE QUEEN'S CRAGS 



George 

(Shaking himself, while Michael still stands, spell- 
bound.) 

It's Peggy Haliburton, after all! 

(To Peggy.) 

Why, Michael said: 'twas Arthur's Queen. 

He called her some outlandish name; 

And said, she'd long red foxy hair, 

And eyes like pools; 

And sang just like the curlew. 

But he'll be telling you himself: 

For, all along, I knew 'twas you he meant. 

Men's tongues wag madly on Midsummer 

Eve: 
And I've been talking, too, 
A pack of nonsense, 

As Michael, here, could tell you, 

[39] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

If he'd not too much sense to heed 

An old man's witless blathering. 

Well, I had best be going; 

And getting home to Susan. 

She doesn't hold with owls, and such like. 

1912 



[40] 



BLOOD YBUSH EDGE 

Bloodybush Edge is a remote spot on the border- 
line between England and Scotland, marked by 
a dumpy obelisk, on which is inscribed an old 
scale of tolls. A rough sandy road runs down 
across the dark moors, into England on the one 
hand, and into Scotland on the other. It is a 
fine, starry night in early September. Daft 
Dick, a fantastic figure, in appearance half- 
gamekeeper, half-tramp {dressed as he is in 
cast-off clothes of country-gentlemen) swings up 
the road from the Scottish side, singing. 

"Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid; 
But I wat they better hae stayed at hame; 
For Michael o' Winfield, he lies dead; 
And Jock o' the Side is prisoner ta'en." 

He stands for a moment, looking across the fells, 

which are very dark, in spite of the starry sky; 

then flings himself down in the heather, with his 

back to the obelisk, and lights his pipe. Pres- 

[411 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

ently, he sees a dark figure, stumbling with un- 
certain steps across the boggy moor; and watches 
it keenly as it approaches, until it reaches the 
road, when he sees that it is a strange man, evi- 
dently a tramp. 

Tramp 
A track, at last, thank God! 

Dick 

Ay, there be whiles 
When beaten tracks are welcome. 

Tramp 

Who the . . . Oh! 
I didn't count on having company 
Again in this world; and when I heard a 

voice 
I thought it must be another ghost. It's 

queer 

[42 1 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Hearing a voice bleat when you haven't 

heard 
A mortal voice for ages. I've not changed 
A word with a soul since noon; and when you 

spoke 
It gave me quite a turn. A feather, Lord! 
But it wouldn't take the shadow of a feather 
To knock me over. I'm in such a stickle, 
Dead-beat, and fit to drop. To drop! I've 

dropped 
A hundred times already, humpty-dumpty! 
Why, I've been tumbling in and out black 

holes, 
Since sunset, on that god-forsaken moor, 
Half -crazed with fear of . . . Ah, you've got 

a light: 
And I've been tramping all the livelong 

day 

[43] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

With a pipeful of comfort in my waistcoat- 
pocket; 

And would have swopt the frizzling sun it- 
self; 

For a match to kindle it. Thanks, mate, 
that's better. 

And now, what was it you were saying, Old 
Cock, 

When I mistook you then for Hamlet's 
father? 

Lord! if you'd seen him at the "Elephant," 

In queer, blue sheeny armour, you'ld have 
shivered. 

"I am thy father's spirit," he says, like that, 

Down in his boots. But you were saying 

Dick 

There are times 

When beaten tracks are welcome. 

r 44 1 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Tramp 

True for you: 
And truer by a score of bumps, for me. 
My neck's been broken half-a-dozen times: 
My body's just an aching bag of bones. 
I'm one big bruise from top to toe, as though 
I'd played in the Cup Final, as the ball. 
And mud, I'm mud to the eyes, and over, 

carrying 
Half of the country that I've passed through 

on me. 
My best suit, too ! And I was always faddy 
About my clothes. My mother used to call 

me 
Finicky Fred. If she could see me now! 
I couldn't count the times that I've pitched 

headlong 

Into black bog. 

[45] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Dick 

Ay, there are clarty bits 
In Foulmire Moss. But what set you strav- 

aging 
Among the peat-hags at this time of night? 
Unless you know the tracks by heart. . . . 

Tramp 

I know 

The Old Kent Road by heart. 

Dick 

The Old Kent Road? 

Tramp 

London, S. E. You've heard of London, 

likely? 

Dick 

Ay! Ay! I've heard. . . . 

[46 1 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Tramp 
Well, mate, I've walked from London. 

Dick 
You've walked from London, here? 

Tramp 

Well, not to-day. 
It must be nigh three hundred mile, I 

reckon. 
Just five weeks, yesterday, since I set out: 
But, as you say, I've walked from London, 

here: 
Though where "here" is the devil only 

knows! 
What is "here" called, if it has any name 
But Back o' Beyond, or World's End, 

eh? 

[471 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Dick 

You're sitting 
On Bloodybush Edge this moment. 

Tramp 

To think of that! 
Bloodybush Edge! And that's what I have 

come to; 
While all my friends, the men and women I 

know, 
Are strolling up and down the Old Kent 

Road, 
Chattering and laughing by the lighted 

stalls 
And the barrows of bananas and oranges; 
Or sitting snugly in bars; and here am I, 
On Bloodybush Edge, talking to Hamlet's 

father. 

[481 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Dick 
My name's Dick Dodd. 

Tramp 

Well, no offence, Old Cock! 
And Hamlet's father was a gentleman, 
A king of ghosts; and Lord! but he could 

groan. 
My name's . . . Jack Smith: and Jack 

would give a sovereign, 
A sovereign down, if he could borrow it, 
And drinks all around, and here's to you, and 

you! 
Just to be sitting in The Seven Stars, 
And listening to the jabber, just to snuff 
A whiff of the smoke and spirit. Seven Stars ! 
I'm lodging under stars enough to-night: 
Seven times seven hundred. . . . 

T49 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Dick 

Often I have tried 

To count them, lying here upon my back: 
But they're too many for me. Just when 

you think 
You've reckoned all between two sprigs of 

heather, 
One tumbles from its place, or else a hundred 
Spring out of nowhere. If you only stare 
Hard at the darkest patch, for long enough 
You'll see that it's all alive with little stars; 
And there isn't any dark at all. 

Tramp 

No dark! 

If you'd been tumbling into those black 

holes, 
You'ld not think overmuch of these same 

stars. 

r 501 



BLOOD YBUSH EDGE 



I couldn't see my hand before me. Stars! 
Give me the lamps along the Old Kent Road : 
And I'm content to leave the stars to you. 
They're well enough; but hung a trifle high 
For walking with clean boots. Now a lamp 
or so . . . 

Dick 

If it's so fine and brave, the Old Kent Road, 
How is it you came to leave it? 

Tramp 

I'd my reasons. 

Dick 

Reasons! Queer reasons surely to set you 

trapesing 
Over Foulmire in the dark: though I could 

travel 

[511 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

The fells from here to Cheviot, blindfold. Ay ! 
And never come a cropper. 

Tramp 

'Twas my luck, 

My lovely luck, and naught to do with rea- 
sons — 
My gaudy luck, and the devilish dust and heat, 
And hell's own thirst that drove me; and too 

snug 
A bed among the heather. Oversleeping, 
That's always played the mischief with 

me. Once 
I slept till three in the morning, and . . . 

Dick 

Till three? 

You're an early bird, if you call that over- 
sleeping. 

[521 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Folk hereabouts are mostly astir by three: 
But, city-folk, I thought. . . . 

Tramp 

I'm on the night-shift. 
I sleep by day, for the most part, like a cat. 
That's why, though dog-tired now, I couldn't 

sleep 
A wink though you paid me gold down. 

Dick 

Night-shift, you! 

And what may your job be? Cat's night- 
shift, likely, 
As well as day's sleep! 

Tramp 
Now, look here, Old Cock, 
There's just one little thing that we could 

teach you 

[531 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Down London way. Why, even babes in 

London 
Know better than to ask too many questions. 
You ask no questions, and you'll hear no 

lies, 
Is the first lesson that's hammered into them. 
No London gentleman asks questions. Lord! 
If you went "What's-your-job?"-ing down 

our way 
You'ld soon be smelling someone's fist I 

reckon; 
Or tripping over somebody in the dark 
Upon the stairs: and with a broken neck, 
Be left, still asking questions in your coffin, 
Till the worms had satisfied you. Not that I 
Have anything to hide, myself. I'm only 
Advising you for your own good. But, Old 

Chap, 

[54] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



We were talking of something else . . . that 

hell-hot road 
I'd pegged along it through the blazing dust 
From Bellingham, till I could peg no more, 
My mouth was just a limekiln; and each 

foot 
One bleeding blister. A kipper on the grid, 
That's what I was on the road. And the 

heather looked 
So cool and cosy, I left the road for a bit; 
And coming on a patch of wet green moss, 
I took my boots off; and it was so champion 
To feel cold water squelching between my 

toes, 
I paddled on like a child, till I came to a 

clump 

Of heather in full bloom, just reeking honey; 

And curled up in it, and dropt sound asleep; 

\55] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And, when I wakened, it was dark, pitch- 
dark, 

For all your stars. The sky was light enough, 

Had I been travelling that way. But, for the 
road, 

I hadn't a notion of its whereabouts. 

A blessed babe-in-the-woods I was, clean 
lost, 

And fit to cry for my mammy. Babes-in- 
the-wood ! 

But there were two of them, for company, 

And only one of me, by my lone self. 

However, I said to myself: You've got to 
spend 

A night in the heather. Well, you've known 
worse beds, 

And worse bed-fellows than a sheep or so — 

Trying to make believe I wasn't frightened. 

[56] 



BLOOD YBUSH EDGE 



And then, somehow, I couldn't, God knows 

why! 
But I was scared: the loneliness, and all; 
The quietness, and the queer creepy noises; 
And something that I couldn't put a name 

to, 
A kind of feeling in my marrow bones, 
As though the great black hills against the 

sky 
Had come alive about me in the night; 
And they were watching me; as though I 

stood 
Naked, in a big room, with blind men sitting, 
Unseen, all round me, in the quiet darkness, 
That was not dark to them. And all the 

stars 
Were eyeing me; and whisperings in the 

heather 

[57] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Were like cold water trickling down my spine : 
And when I heard a cough. . . . 

Dick 

A coughing sheep. 

Tramp 

May be: but 'twas a coughing ghost to me. 
I've never yet set eyes on a ghost, unless 

. . . (looking askance at Dick) 
Though I've often felt them near me. Once, 

when I . . . 
But, Lord, I'm talking, talking . . o 

Dick 

I've seen ghosts, 
A hundred times. The ghosts of reivers ride 
The fells at night; and you'ld have ghosts in 

plenty 

[581 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



About you, lad, though you were blind to 

them. 
But, why d' you fear them? There's no harm 

in ghosts. 
Even should they ride over you, it's only 
Like a cold wind blowing through you. The 

other night, 
As I came down by Girsonsfield, the ghost 
Of Parcy Reed, with neither hands nor 

feet, 
Rode clean through me; the false Halls, and 

the Croziers 
Hard on his heels, though I kept clear of 

them; 
And often I've heard him, cracking his 

hunting-crop, 
On a winter's night, when the winds were in 

full cry; 

[59] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And heard the yelp of the pack, and the 

horn's halloo, 
Over the howl of the storm, or caught at 

dawn 
A glimpse of the tails of his green hunting- 
jacket. 
Whenever you shudder, or break in a cold 

sweat, 
Not knowing why, folk say that someone's 

stepping 
Over your grave; but that's all stuff and 

nonsense. 
It's only some poor ghost that's walking 

through you. 

Tramp 

Well, ghosts or sheep, I'd had my fill of 
them; 

[601 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Went all to pieces, took to my heels and 
ran; 

And hadn't run three yards, when I pitched 
headlong. 

That was the first. Since then, I've felt the 
bottom 

Of every hole, five hundred to my reckon- 
ing, 

From there to here. 

Dick 

You've covered some rough ground. 
But you have doubled back upon your tracks 
If you were making North. 

Tramp 

Ay: I was making 

For Scotland. I'd a notion . . . 

[61] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Dick 

Scotland lies 

Under your left heel, though your right's in 

England. 

Tramp 

To think of that! Well, I can't feel much 

difference 
Twixt one and the other. Perhaps, if I'd 

my boots off . . . 
But, Hamlet's father, isn't it a king's bed 
We're lying on, and sprawling over two coun- 
tries ! 
And yet, I'd rather be in Millicent Place, 
London, S. E., and sleeping three in a bed. 
This room's too big for me, too wide and 

windy; 
The bed, too broad, and not what I call snug : 
The ceiling, far too high, and full of eyes. 

[62] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



I hate the loneliness. I like to feel 

There are houses, packed with people, all 

about me 
For miles on miles: I'm fond of company; 
I'm only really happy in a throng, 
Crowds jostling thick and hot about me. Here 
I feel, somehow, as if I were walking naked 
Among the hills, the last man left alive. 
I haven't so much as set eyes on a house, 
Not since I left that blistering road. 

Dick 

The nearest 

Is three miles off, or more. 

Tramp 

Well, country-people 
Should be good neighbours, and quiet; but, 
for me, 

[631 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

I'd rather be packed like herrings in a bar- 
rel. 
I hate the loneliness: it makes me think. . . 
I'm fond of company; too fond at times. 
If I hadn't been so fond of company 
A while back, I'ld have hardly been lying 

now 
On Bloodybush Edge, talking of ghosts at 

midnight, 
When I might be . . . but it won't bear 

thinking on. 
Yet, even with you beside me, Bloodybush 

Edge 
Is a size too big in beds — leaves too much 

room 
For ghosts, to suit my fancy. Three in a 

bed, 

And you sleep sound. 

[641 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Dick 

And why should you fear ghosts, 

When, one fine night, you'll be a ghost your- 
self? 

How soon, who knows! Why, even at this 
moment, 

If you had broken your neck among the 
moss-hags 

You'ld be your own ghost sitting there, not 
you. 

If you hadn't been so muddy, and so fright- 
ened . . . 

Nay; but I've seen too many ghosts in my 
time 

For you to take me in. Ghosts often lean 

Over me, when I'm fishing in the moonlight. 

They're keen, are ghosts. I sometimes feel 

their breath 

[65 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Upon my neck, when I am guddling trout; 

Or the clutch of their clammy fingers on my 
wrist 

When I am spearing salmon, lest I miss. 

And always at the burning of the water 

You'll see them lurking in the shadows, be- 
yond 

The flare and the smoke of the torches, in 
the night, 

Eager as boys to join in the sport; and at 
times, 

When they have pressed too near, and a 
torch has flared, 

I've seen the live flame running through their 
bodies. 

But oftenest they appear to me when alone 

I'm fishing like a heron; and last night 

As I stooped over Deadwater, I felt . . . 

[661 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Tramp 

And you're an honest man to be asking ques- 
tions 

Of gentlemen on tour! So, you're a poacher, 

A common poacher: though it must be rare 
sport, 

I've often fancied . . . 

Dick 

To creep up to a pool 

Where a big bull-trout lies beneath a boulder 

With nose against the stream, his tail scarce 

flicking; 

To creep up quiet and without a shadow, 

And lie upon your belly in the gravel; 

And slide your hands as noiseless as an otter 

Into the water, icy-cold and aching, 

And tickle, tickle, till you have him fuddled; 

f 67 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Then lift him, cold and slithery, from the 

burn, 
A quivering bit of silver in the moonlight . . . 

Tramp 

Ay, that must be rare sport; but, for my- 
self, 
Fid rather manage without the help of ghosts. 
Once, I remember, I was bending down — 
'Twas in an empty house ... I'd cut my 

thumb, 
The window jamming somehow, a nasty cut: 
The mark's still there . . . (not that! nay, 

that's the place 
I was bitten by a friend) and as I fumbled 
With a damned tricky lock, some Yankee pat- 
ent, 
I felt a ghost was standing close behind me, 

[681 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



And dared not stir, or squint over my shoul- 
der: 

But crouched there, moving neither hand 
nor foot, 

Till I was just a solid ache of terror, 

And could have squealed aloud with the 
numb cramp, 

And pins and needles in my arms and 
legs. 

And then at last, when I was almost drop- 
Ping, 

I lost my head, took to my heels, and bolted 

Headfirst down stairs, and through the 
broken window, 

Leaving my kit and the swag, without a 
thought : 

And never coming to my senses, till 

I saw a bullseye glimmering down the lane. 

[69] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And then I found my brow was bleeding, 

too — 
At first I thought 'twas sweat — a three-inch 

cut, 
Clean to the bone. I had to have it stitched. 
I told the doctor that I'd put my head 
Through a window in the dark, but not a word 
About my body following it. The doctor, 
He was a gentleman, and asked no questions. 
A civil chap: he'd stitched my scalp before 
Once, when the heel of a lady's slipper . . . 

Dick 

So you 

Are a common poacher, too; although you 

take 
Only dead silver and gold. Still it must be 

A risky business, burgling, when the folk . . . 

[70] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Tramp 
Risk! ay, there's risk! That's where the fun 

comes in; 
To steal into a house, with people sleeping 
So warm and snug and innocent overhead; 
To hear them snoring as you pass their doors 
With all they're dreaming of stowed in your 

pockets; 
To tiptoe from the attic to the basement, 
With a chance that you may find on any 

landing 
A door flung open, and a man to tackle. 
It's only empty houses I'm afraid of. 
I've more than once looked up a pistol's 

snout, 
And never turned a hair . . . though once I 

heard 

A telephone-bell ring in an empty house — 

[71] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And I can hear the damned thing tinkling 
yet . . . 

I'm all in a cold sweat just thinking of it. 

It tinkled, tinkled . . . Risk! Why man 
alive, 

Life's all a risky business, till you're dead. 

There's no risk then . . . unless ... I never 
feared 

A living man, sleeping or waking, yet. 

But ghosts, well, ghosts are different some- 
how. There's 

A world of difference between men and 
ghosts. 

Let's think no more of ghosts — but lighted 
streets, 

And crowds, and women; though it's my be- 
lief 

There's not a woman in all this country-side. 

[72 1 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Dick 

There's womenfolk, and plenty. And they 

are kind, 
The womenfolk, to me. Daft Dick is ever 
A favourite with the womenfolk. His belly 
Would oft go empty, were it not for them. 

Tramp 

You call those women, gawky, rawboned 
creatures, 

Thin-lipped, hard-jawed, cold-eyed! I like 
fat women. 

If you could walk just now down the Old 
Kent Road, 

And see the plump young girls in furs and 
feathers, 

With saucy black eyes, sparkling in the gas- 
light; 

[73] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And looking at you, munching oranges, 

Or whispering to each other with shrill 

giggles 
As you go by, and nudging one another; 
Or standing with a soldier eating winkles, 
Grimacing with the vinegar and pepper, 
Then laughing so merrily you almost wish 
You were a red-coat, too! And the fat old 

mothers, 
Too old for feathers and follies, with their 

tight 
Nigh-bursting bodices, and their double chins, 
They're homely, motherly and comfortable, 
And do a man's eyes good. There's not a 

sight 
In all the world that's half as rare to see 
As a fat old wife with jellied eels and 

porter. 

[741 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Ay, women should be plump . . . though 
Ellen Ann 

Was neither old nor fat, when she and I 

Were walking out together, and she'd red 
hair, 

As red as blazes, and a peaked white face. 

But 'twas her eyes, her eyes that always 
laughed, 

And the merry way she had with her . . . 
But, Lord, 

I'm talking! Only mention petticoats, 

And I'm the boy to talk till dooms- 
day. Women ! 

If it hadn't been for a petticoat, this moment 

I might be drinking my own health in the 
bar 

Of The Seven Stars or The World Turned 

Upside Down, 

[75] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Instead of . . . Well, Old Cock, it's good to 
have 

Someone to talk to, after such a day. 

You cannot get much further with a sheep; 

And I met none but sheep, and they all scut- 
tled, 

Not even stopping to pass the time of 
day, 

And the birds, well, they'd enough to say, 
and more, 

When I was running away from myself in 
the dark, 

With their "Go back! Go back!" 

Dick 

You'd scared the grouse. 
They talk like Christians. Often in the 

dawn . . . 

[76] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Tramp 

Bloodybush Edge! But why the Bloody- 
bush? 
I see no bush. . . . 

Dick 

Some fight in the old days, likely, 
In the days when men were men . . . 

Tramp 

I little thought, 

When I set out from London on my travels, 

That I was making straight for Bloodybush 

Edge. 
I had my reasons, but, reason or none, it's 

certain 
That Fid have turned up here, someday or 

other : 

For I must travel. I've the itching foot. 

[771 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

I talk of London, when I'm well out of it 
By a hundred miles or so; but, when I'm in 

it, 
There always comes a time when I couldn't 

stay 
A moment longer, not for love or money: 
Though in the end it always has me back. 
I cannot rest. There's something in my 

bones — 
They'll need to screw the lid down with 

brass screws 
To keep them in my coffin. When I'm dead, 
If I don't walk, I'll be surprised, I . . . 

Lord, 
We're on to ghosts again! But I'm the sort 
That's always hankering to be elsewhere, 
Wherever I am. Some men can stick to a 

job 

[78] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



As though they liked it. I'm not made that 

way. 
I couldn't heave the same pick two days 

running. 
I've tried it: and I know. I must have 

change. 

It's in my blood. And work, why work's for 

fools. 

Dick 

Ay, fools indeed: and yet they seem con- 
tent. 

Content! why my old uncle, Richard Dodd, 

He worked till he was naught but skin and 
bone, 

And rheumatism: and when the doctor told 
him: 

"You must give up. It's no use; you're past 
work." 

[79] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

"Past work," he says, "past work, like an 

old horse: 
"They shoot old nags, when they are past 

their work. 
"Doctor," he says, "I'll give you five pound 

down 
"To take that gun, and shoot me like a 

nag." 
The doctor only laughed, and answered, 

"Nay. 
"An old nag's carcase is worth money, 

Richard : 
"But yours, why, who'ld give anything for 

yours!" 
They call me daft — Daft Dick. It pleases 

them. 
But I have never been daft enough to work. 
I never did a hand's turn in my life: 

[801 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



And won't, while there are trout-streams 

left, and women. 
And I am a traveller, too, I cannot rest. 
The wind's in my bones, I think, and like 

the wind, 

I'm here, to-night; to-morrow, Lord knows 

where ! 

Tramp 

London, perhaps, or well upon the road 

there, 
Since I'm on Bloodybush Edge. 

Dick 

Nay, never London. 

I cannot thole the towns. They stifle me. 

I spent a black day in Newcastle, once. 

Never again! I cannot abide the crowds. 

I must be by myself. I must have air: 

[811 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

I must have room to breathe, and elbow- 
room, 

Wide spaces round me, winds and running 
water. 

I know the singing-note of every burn 

'Twixt here and High Cup Nick, by Appleby. 

And birds and beasts, I must have them 
about me. 

Rabbits and hares, weasels and stoats and 
adders, 

Plover and grouse, partridge and snipe and 
curlew, 

Red-shank and heron. I think that towns 
would choke me; 

And Fid go blind shut in by the tall houses, 

With never a far sight to stretch my eyes. 

I must have hills, and hills beyond. And 

beds — 

[82] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



I never held with beds and stuffiness. 
I'm seldom at my ease beneath a roof: 
The rafters all seem crushing on my head, 
A dead weight. Though I sleep in barns in 

Winter, 
I'm never at home except beneath the stars. 
I've seen enough of towns; and as for the 

women, 
Fat blowsy sluts and slatterns . . . 

Tramp 

Easy, Old Cock! 
"What's one man's meat . . ." as the saying 

is; and so, 
Each man to his own world, and his own 

women. 

{They sit for awhile smoking in silence. Then Daft 
Dick begins singing softly to himself again.) 

[83 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Dick 

(Singing) "Their horses were the wrong way- 
shod, 
And Hobbie has mounted his grey sae fine, 
Wat on his old horse, Jock on his bay; 
And on they rode for the waters of Tyne. 

"And when they came to Chollerton Ford, 
They lighted down by the light o' the moon; 
And a tree they cut with nogs on each side, 
To climb up the wa' of Newcastle toun." 

Tramp 
What's that you're singing, matey? 

Dick 

"Jock o' the Side." 

A ballad of the days when men were men, 

[84] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



And sheep were sheep, and not all mixter- 

maxter. 
Thon were brave days, or brave nights, 

rather, thon! 
Brave nights, when Liddisdale was Liddis- 

dale, 
And Tynedale, Tynedale, not all hand-in- 

glove, 
And hanky-panky, and naught but market- 
haggling 
Twixt men whose fathers' swords were the 

bargainers ! 
That was a man's work, riding out, hot-trod, 
Over the hills to lift a herd of cattle, 
And leave behind a blazing byre, or to steal 
Your neighbour's sheep, while he lay drunk 

and snoring — 

A man's work, ever bringing a man's wages, 

[85] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

The fight to the death, or life won at the 

sword's point. 
God! those were nights: the heather and sky 

alow 
With the light of burning peel-towers, and 

the wind 
Ringing with slogans, as the dalesmen met, 
Over the singing of the swords: 
"An Armstrong! An Armstrong!" 
"A Milburne! A Milburne!" 
"An Elliott! An Elliott!" 
"A Robson! A Robson!" 
"A Charlton! A Charlton!" 
"A Fenwick! A Fenwick!" 
"Fy, Tynedale, to it!" 
"Jethert's here! Jethert's here!" 
"Tarset and Tarretburn! 

"Hardy and heatherbred! 

[86] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



"Yet! Yet!" 

Man, did you ever hear the story told 
Of Barty Milburne, Barty of the Comb, 
Down Tarset way? and how he waked one 

morning 
To find that overnight some Scottish reiver 
Had lifted the pick of his flock: and how hot- 
foot 
He was up the Blackburn, summoning Cor- 
bet Jock: 
And how the two set out to track the thieves 
By Emblehope, Berrymoor Edge and Black- 
man's Law, 
By Blakehope Nick, and under Oh Me Edge, 
And over Girdle Fell to Chattlehope Spout, 
And so to Carter Bar; but lost the trail 
Somewhere about the Reidswire: and how, 
being loth 

[87] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

To go home empty-handed, they just lifted 
The best sheep grazing on the Scottish side, 
As fair exchange: and turned their faces 

home. 
By this, snow had set in: and 'twas sore 

work 
Driving the wethers against it over the fell; 
When, finding they were followed in their 

turn 
By the laird of Leatham and his son, they 

laughed, 
And waited for the Scots by Chattlehope 

Spout 
Above Catcleugh: and in the snow they 

fought, 
Till Corbet Jock and one of the Scots were 

killed, 

And Barty himself sore wounded in the thigh; 

[881 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



When the other Scot, thinking him good as 

dead, 
Sprang on him, as he stooped, with a whick- 
ering laugh: 
And Barty, with one clean, back-handed 

blow, 
Struck off his head, and, as they tell the tale, 
"Garred it spang like an onion along the 

heather." 
Then, picking up the body of Corbet Jock, 
He slung it over his shoulder; and carried his 

mate 
With wounded thigh, and driving the wethers 

before him 
Through blinding snow, across the boggy 

fells 
To the Blackburn, though his boot was filled 

with blood. 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Or the other tale, how one of the Robson 

lads 
Stole a Scot's ewes: and when he'd got them 

home, 
And had mixed them with his own, found 

out, too late, 
They'd got the scab: and how he went 

straight back 
With a stout hempen rope to the Scot's 

house 
And hanged him from his own rooftree by 

the neck 
Till he was dead, to teach the rascal a lesson, 
Or so he said, that when a gentleman called 
For sheep the next time, he'ld think twice 

about it 

Before he tried to palm off scabbit ewes. 

Poachers and housebreakers and bargainers! 

[901 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Those men were men: and lived and died 

like men; 
Taking their own road — asking no man's 

leave; 
Doing and speaking outright, hot and clean, 
The thing that burned in them, and paying 

the price. 
And those same gawky, rawboned women 

mothered 
Such sons as these; and still do, nowadays — 
For hunting foxes, and for market-haggling! 
You fear no living man! A glinting bullseye 
Down a dark lane would not have set them 

scuttling. 

They didn't dread the mosshags in the dark. 

And seemingly they'd little fear of ghosts, 

Being themselves so free in making ghosts. 

Ghosts ! why the night is all alive with ghosts, 

[911 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Ghosts of dead raiders, and dead cattle- 
lifters; 

Poor, headless ghosts; and ghosts with 
broken necks . . . 

See that chap, yonder, with the bleeding thigh, 

On a grey gelding, making for Hurkle- 
winter — 

A horse-thief, sure . . . And the ghostly 
stallions whinney 

As the ghostly reivers drive their flocks and 
herds . . . 

(Listening.) 

They are quiet now: but I've often heard the 

patter 
Of sheep, or the trot- trot of the frightened 

stirks 

Down this same road . . . 

[92] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Tramp 

Stop man! You'll drive me crazy! 

Let's talk no more of ghosts ! I want to sleep : 

I'm dog-tired . . . but I'll never sleep to- 
night. 

What's that ... I thought I heard . . . 
I'm all a-tremble. 

My very blood stops, listening, in my veins. 

I'm all to fiddlestrings . . . Let's talk of 
London, 

And lights, and crowds, and women. Once I 
met 

A chap in the bar of The World Turned Up- 
side Down, 

With three blue snakes tattooed around his 
wrist: 

A joker, he was; and what he didn't know 

Of women the world over you could shove 

[93 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Between the nail and the quick, and never 

feel it — 
He told me that in Valparaiso once 
A half-breed wench that he . . . but, Lord, 

what's that! 

(A low distant sound of trotting drawing quickly 
nearer.) 

I thought I heard . . . Do you hear noth- 
ing? 

Dick 

Naught. 
Tramp 

I'm all on edge: I could have sworn I heard — 
Where was I? Well, as I was saying . . . 

God! 
Can you hear nothing now? Trot-trot! 

Trot-trot! 
I must be going crazed, or you're stone deaf. 

[94] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Dick 

Nay, I'm none deaf. 

Tramp 

It's coming nearer, nearer . . . 
Trot-trot! trot-trot! Man, tell me that you 

hear it, 
For God's sake, or I'll go mad! 

Dick 

No two men ever 
May hear or see them, together, at one time. 

Tramp 

Hear what? See what? Speak, man, if you've 
a tongue! 

Dick 

The ghostly stirks. 

[95] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Tramp 
(Starting up.) 

The ghostly stirks! Trot-trot! 

Trot-trot! They're almost on us. Look 

you! there! 
Along the road there, black against the 

sky. 
They're charging down with eyes ablaze . . . 

O Christ . . . 

(He takes to his heels, running lamely down the road 
on the Scottish side, as a herd of frightened young 
stirks gallops down the road from the English 
side. They pass Dick, who watches them, 
placidly smoking, until they are by, when, taking 
his pipe from his mouth, he gives a blood-curdling 
whoop, which sends them scampering more 
wildly after the tramp. Presently the cattle- 
drover, panting and limping half-a-mile behind 
his herd, comes down the road. Seeing Dick, 
he stops.) 

[96] 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



Drover 

Have any beasts come by? Lord, what a 

dance 
They've led me, since we quitted Belling- 

ham! 
I've chased them over half the countryside! 

Dick 

Aye: they were making straight for Din- 
labyre. 

Drover 

Then I can rest. They cannot go far wrong 

now. 
We're for Saughtree; and I'm fair hattered, 

and they 
Can't have the spunk left in them to stray 

far. 
They'll be all right. 

[07] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Dick 

Ay! and your brother's with them. 

Drover 
Brother? I have no brother . . . 

Dick 

Well, he and you 
Are as like as peas — a pair of gallows-birds. 
And he was driving them, and walloping 
them . . . 

Drover 

(Starting to run.) 

Good God ! Just wait till I catch up with him ! 

Dick 

(Calling after him.) 

It will take you all your time and more, to 

catch him. 

[98 1 



BLOODYBUSH EDGE 



{To himself.) 

Now, I can sleep in peace, without bed- 
fellows. 
Two in a bed is one too many for me — 
And such a clatter-jaw! 



1918 



[99] 



HOOPS 

SCENE: The big tent-stable of a travelling circus. 
On the ground near the entrance, Gentleman 
John, stable-man and general odd-job man, 
lies smoking beside Merry Andrew, the clown. 
Gentleman John is a little hunched man with 
a sensitive face and dreamy eyes. Merry 
Andrew, who is resting between the afternoon 
and evening performances, with his clown's hat 
lying beside him, wears a crimson wig, and a 
baggy suit of orange-coloured cotton, patterned 
with purple cats. His face is chalked dead white 
and painted with a set grin, so that it is impos- 
sible to see what manner of man he is. In the 
background are camels and elephants feeding, 
dimly visible in the steamy dusk of the tent. 

Gentleman John 

And then consider camels: only think 

Of camels long enough, and you'ld go mad — 
[100] 



HOOPS 



With all their humps and lumps; their 

knobbly knees, 
Splay feet and straddle legs; their sagging 

necks, 
Flat flanks, and scraggy tails, and monstrous 

teeth. 
I've not forgotten the first fiend I met, 
'Twas in a lane in Smyrna, just a ditch 
Between the shuttered houses, and so nar- 
row 
The brute's bulk blocked the road; the huge, 

green stack 
Of dewy fodder that it slouched beneath 
Brushing the yellow walls on either hand, 
And shutting out the strip of burning blue: 
And I'd to face that vicious, bobbing head 
With evil eyes, slack lips, and nightmare 

teeth, 

[1011 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And duck beneath the snaky, squirming 

neck, 
Pranked with its silly string of bright blue 

beads, 
That seemed to wriggle every way at once, 
As though it were a hydra. Allah's beard! 
But I was scared and nearly turned and ran: 
I felt that muzzle take me by the scruff 
And heard those murderous teeth crunching 

my spine, 
Before I stooped — though I dodged safely 

under. 

I've always been afraid of ugliness. 

I'm such a toad myself, I hate all toads; 

And the camel is the ugliest toad of all 

To my mind: and it's just my devil's luck 

I've come to this — to be a camel's lackey, 

To fetch and carry for original sin, 
[102] 



HOOPS 



For sure enough, the camel's old evil incar- 
nate. 
Blue beads and amulets to ward off evil! 
No eye's more evil than a camel's eye. 
The elephant is quite a comely brute, 
Compared with Satan camel, — trunk and all, 
His floppy ears and his impertinent tail. 
He's stolid, but, at least, a gentleman. 
It doesn't hurt my pride to valet him, 
And bring his shaving-water. He's a lord. 
Only the bluest blood that has come down 
Through generations from the mastodon 
Could carry off that tail with dignity, 
That tail and trunk. He cannot look absurd 
For all the monkey tricks you put him 

through, 
Your paper hoops and popguns. He just 
makes 

[103] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

His masters look ridiculous, when his pomp's 
Butchered to make a bumpkins' holiday. 
He's dignity itself, and proper pride, 
That stands serenely in a circus-world 
Of mountebanks and monkeys. He has 

weight 
Behind him: aeons of primeval power 
Have shaped that pillared bulk; and he 

stands sure, 
Solid, substantial on the world's foundations. 
And he has form, form that's too big a thing 
To be called beauty. Once long since, I 

thought 

To be a poet, and shape words, and mould 

A poem like an elephant, huge, sublime, 

To front oblivion: and because I failed 

And all my rhymes were gawky, shambling 

camels, 

[1041 



HOOPS 



Or else obscene, blue-buttocked apes, I'm 

doomed 
To fetch and carry for the things I've made, 
Till one of them crunches my back-bone 

with his teeth, 
Or knocks my wind out with a forthright 

kick 
Clean in the midriff; crumpling up in death 
The hunched and stunted body that was me, 
John, the apostle of the Perfect Form! 
Jerusalem! I'm talking, like a book, 
As you would say: and a bad book at that, 
A maundering, kiss-mammy book — The 

Hunchback's End, 
Or The Camel-Keeper's Reward — would be 

its title. 

I froth and bubble like a new-broached cask. 

No wonder you look glum for all your grin. 
[105] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

What makes you mope? You've naught to 

growse about. 
You've got no hump. Your body's brave 

and straight — 
So shapely even that you can afford 
To trick it in fantastic shapelessness, 
Knowing that there's a clean-limbed man 

beneath 
Preposterous pantaloons and purple cats. 
I would have been a poet, if I could: 
But better than shaping poems, 'twould 

have been 
To have had a comely body and clean limbs 
Obedient to my bidding. 

Merry Andrew 

I missed a hoop 

This afternoon. 

[1061 



HOOPS 



Gentleman John 
You missed a hoop? You mean . . . 

Merry Andrew 

That I am done, used up, scrapped, on the 

shelf, 
Out of the running, — only that, no more. 

Gentleman John 

Well, I've been missing hoops my whole life 

long; 
Though, when I come to think. of it, perhaps 
There's little consolation to be chewed 
From crumbs that I can offer. 

Merry Andrew 

I've not missed 

A hoop since I was six. I'm forty-two. 

[107 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

This is the first time that my body's failed 

me: 
But 'twill not be the last. And . . . 

Gentleman John 

Such is life! 
You're going to say. You see I've got it pat, 
Your jaded wheeze. Lord, what a wit I'd 

make 
If I'd a set grin painted on my face. 
And such is life, I'd say a hundred times, 
And each time set the world aroar afresh 
At my original humour. Missed a hoop! 
Why, man alive, you've naught to grumble 

at. 
I've boggled every hoop since I was six. 
I'm fifty-five; and I've run round a ring 
Would make this potty circus seem a pinhole. 
[108] 



HOOPS 



I wasn't born to sawdust. I'd the world 
For circus . . . 

Merry Andrew 
It's no time for crowing now. 
I know a gentleman, and take on trust 
The silver spoon and all. My teeth were cut 
Upon a horseshoe: and I wasn't born 
To purple and fine linen — but to sawdust, 
To sawdust, as you say — brought up on 

sawdust. 
I've had to make my daily bread of sawdust: 
Ay, and my children's — children's, that's the 

rub, 
As Shakespeare says . . . 

Gentleman John 

Ah, there you go again! 
What a rare wit to set the ring aroar — 

[109] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

As Shakespeare says! Crowing? A gentle- 
man? . 
Man, didn't you say you'd never missed a 

hoop? 
It's only gentlemen who miss no hoops, 
Clean-livers, easy lords of life who take 
Each obstacle at a leap, who never fail. 
You are the gentleman. 

Merry Andrew 

Now don't you try 
Being funny at my expense; or you'll soon 

find 
I'm not quite done for yet — not quite snuffed 

out. 
There's still a spark of life. You may have 

words : 
But I've a fist will be a match for them. 

r 1101 



HOOPS 



Words slaver feebly from a broken jaw. 
I've always lived straight, as a man must do 
In my profession, if he'd keep in fettle: 
But I'm no gentleman, for I fail to see 
There's any sport in baiting a poor man 
Because he's losing grip at forty-two, 
And sees his livelihood slipping from his 

grasp — 
Ay, and his children's bread. 

Gentleman John 

Why, man alive, 
Who's baiting you? This winded, broken 

cur, 
That limps through life, to bait a bull like 

you! 

You don't want pity, man? The beaten bull, 

Even when the dogs are tearing at his gullet, 
[111] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Turns no eye up for pity. I, myself, 
Crippled and hunched and twisted as I am, 
Would make a brave fend to stand up to 

you 
Until you swallowed your words, if you 

should slobber 
Your pity over me. A bull! Nay, man, 
You're nothing but a bear with a sore head. 
A bee has stung you — you who've lived on 

honey. 
Sawdust, forsooth! You've had the sweet of 

life: 
You've munched the honeycomb till . . . 

Merry Andrew 

Ay: talk's cheap. 
But you've no children. You don't under- 
stand. 

[1121 



HOOPS 



Gentleman John 
I have no children: I don't understand! 

Merry Andrew 
It's children make the difference. 

Gentleman John 

Man alive — 
Alive and kicking, though you're shamming 

dead — 
You've hit the truth at last. It's that, just 

that, 
Makes all the difference. If you hadn't chil- 
dren, 
I 'Id find it in my heart to pity you, 
Granted you'ld let me. I don't understand! 
I've seen you stripped. I've seen your chil- 
dren stripped. 

[113] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

You've never seen me naked; but you can 

guess 
The misstitched, gnarled, and crooked thing 

I am. 
Now, do you understand? I may have words: 
But you; man, do you never burn with pride 
That you've begotten those six limber bodies, 
Firm flesh, and supple sinew, and lithe 

limb — 
Six nimble lads, each like young Absalom, 
With red blood running lively in his veins, 
Bone of your bone, your very flesh and 

blood? 
It's you don't understand: God, what I'ld 

give 
This moment to be you, just as you are, 
Preposterous pantaloons, and purple cats, 
And painted leer, and crimson curls, and all, 
[1141 



HOOPS 



To be you now, with only one missed hoop, 
If I'd six clean-limbed children of my loins, 
Born of the ecstasy of life within me, 
To keep it quick and valiant in the ring 
When I . . . but I . . . Man, man, you've 

missed a hoop: 
But they'll take every hoop like blooded 

colts : 
And 'twill be you in them that leaps through 

life, 
And in their children, and their children's 

children. 
God! doesn't it make you hold your breath 

to think 

There'll always be an Andrew in the ring, 

The very spit and image of you stripped, 

While life's old circus lasts? And I ... at 

least, 

[115] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

There is no twisted thing of my begetting 
To keep my shame alive: and that's the most 
That I've to pride myself upon. But, God, 
I'm proud, ay, proud as Lucifer, of that. 
Think what it means, with all the urge and 

sting, 
When such a lust of life runs in the veins. 
You, with your six sons, and your one missed 

hoop, 
Put that thought in your pipe and smoke it. 

Well, 
And how d'you like the flavour? Something 

bitter? 
And burns the tongue a trifle? That's the 

brand 
That I must smoke while I've the breath to 

puff. 

(Pause.) 
[1161 



HOOPS 



I've always worshipped the body, all my 

life — 
The body, quick with the perfect health 

which is beauty, 
Lively, lissom, alert, and taking its way 
Through the world with the easy gait of the 

early gods. 
The only moments I've lived my life to the full 
And that live again in remembrance unfaded 

are those 
When I've seen life compact in some perfect 

body, 
The living God made manifest in man: 
A diver in the Mediterranean, resting, 
With sleeked black hair, and glistening salt- 
tanned skin, 
Gripping the quivering gunwale with tense 

hands, 

[117] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

His torso lifted out of the peacock sea, 
Like Neptune, carved in amber, come to 

life: 
A stark Egyptian on the Nile's edge poised 
Like a bronze Osiris against the lush, rank 

green : 
A fisherman dancing reels, on New Year's 

Eve, 
In a hall of shadowy rafters and flickering 

lights, 
At St. Abbs on the Berwickshire coast, to 

the skirl of the pipes, 
The lift of the wave in his heels, the sea in 

his veins: 
A Cherokee Indian, as though he were one 

with his horse, 

His coppery shoulders agleam, his feathers 

aflame 

[1181 



HOOPS 



With the last of the sun, descending a gulch 
in Alaska: 

A brawny Cleveland puddler, stripped to the 
loins, 

On the cauldron's brink, stirring the molten 
iron 

In the white-hot glow, a man of white-hot 
metal : 

A Cornish ploughboy driving an easy share 

Through the grey, light soil of a headland, 
against a sea 

Of sapphire, gay in his new white cordu- 
roys, 

Blue-eyed, dark-haired and whistling a care- 
less tune: 

Jack Johnson, stripped for the ring, in his 

swarthy pride 

Of sleek and rippling muscle . . . 
[1191 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Merry Andrew 

Jack's the boy! 
Ay, he's the proper figure of a man 
But he'll grow fat and flabby and scant of 

breath. 
He'll miss his hoop some day. 

Gentleman John 

But what are words 
To shape the joy of form? The Greeks did 

best 
To cut in marble or to cast in bronze 
Their ecstasy of living. I remember 
A marvellous Hermes that I saw in Athens, 
Fished from the very bottom of the deep 
Where he had lain, two thousand years or 

more, 

Wrecked with a galley-full of Roman pirates, 
[120] 



HOOPS 



Among the white bones of his plunderers 
Whose flesh had fed the fishes as they sank, — 
Serene in cold imperishable beauty, 
Biding his time, till he should rise again, 
Exultant from the wave, for all men's wor- 
ship, 
The morning-spring of life, the youth of the 

world, 
Shaped in sea-coloured bronze for everlast- 
ing. 
Ay, the Greeks knew; but men have for- 
gotten now. 
Not easily do we meet beauty walking 
The world to-day in all the body's pride. 
That's why I'm here — a stable-boy to 

camels — 
For in the circus-ring there's more delight 

Of seemly bodies, goodly in sheer health, 
[121] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Bodies trained and tuned to the perfect 

pitch, 
Eager, blithe, debonair, from head to heel 
Aglow and alive in every pulse, than else- 
where 
In this machine-ridden land of grimy, glum, 
Round-shouldered, coughing mechanics. Once 

I lived 
In London, in a slum called Paradise, 
Sickened to see the greasy pavements crawl- 
ing 
With puny, flabby babies, thick as maggots. 
Poor brats! Fid soon go mad, if I'd to live 
In London, with its stunted men and women 
But little better to look on than myself. 

Yet, there's an island where the men keep 

fit— 

[122] 



HOOPS 



St. Kilda's, a stark fastness of high crag: 
They must keep fit or famish; their main 

food 
The Solan goose; and it's a chancy job 
To climb down a sheer face of slippery gran- 
ite 
And drop a noose over the sentinel bird 
Ere he can squawk to rouse the sleeping 

flock. 
They must keep fit — their bodies taut and 

trim — 
To have the nerve: and they're like tempered 

steel, 
Suppled and fined. But even they've grown 

slacker 
Through traffic with the mainland, in these 

days. 

A hundred years ago, the custom held 

[123] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

That none should take a wife till he had 

stood, 
His left heel on the dizziest point of crag, 
His right leg and both arms, stretched in mid 

air, 
Above the sea: three hundred feet to 

drop 
To death, if he should fail — a Spartan 

test. 
But any man who could have failed, would 

scarce 
Have earned his livelihood, or his children's 

bread 
On that bleak rock. 

Merry Andrew 
(Drowsily.) 

Ay, children — that's it, children! 
[124] 



HOOPS 



Gentleman John 

St. Kilda's children had a chance, at least, 
With none begotten idly of weakling fa- 
thers. 
Spartan test for fatherhood! Should they 
miss 
Their hoop, 'twas death, and childless. You 

have still 
Six lives to take unending hoops for you, 
And you yourself are not done yet . . . 

Merry Andrew 

(More drowsily.) 

Not yet: 

And there's much comfort in the thought of 

children. 

They're bonnie boys enough; and should do 

well, 

[125] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

If I can but keep going a little while, 
A little longer till . . . 

Gentleman John 

Six strapping sons! 
And I have naught but camels. 

(Pause.) 

Yet, I've seen 

A vision in this stable that puts to shame 

Each ecstasy of mortal flesh and blood 

That's been my eyes' delight. I never 

breathed 
A word of it to man or woman yet: 
I couldn't whisper it now to you, if you 

looked 

Like any human thing this side of death. 

'Twas on the night I stumbled on the circus. 

I'd wandered all day, lost among the fells, 
[126] 



HOOPS 



Over snow-smothered hills, through blinding 
blizzard, 

Whipped by a wind that seemed to strip and 
skin me, 

Till I was one numb ache of sodden ice. 

Quite done, and drunk with cold, I'd soon 
have dropped 

Dead in a ditch; when suddenly a lantern 

Dazzled my eyes. I smelt a queer warm smell ; 

And felt a hot puff in my face; and blun- 
dered 

Out of the flurry of snow and raking wind 

Dizzily into a glowing Arabian night 

Of elephants and camels having supper. 

I thought that I'd gone mad, stark, staring 
mad: 

But I was much too sleepy to mind just 

then — 

[127] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Dropped dead asleep upon a truss of hay; 
And lay, a log, till — well, I cannot tell 
How long I lay unconscious. I but know 
I slept, and wakened: and that 't was no 

dream. 
I heard a rustle in the hay beside me; 
And opening sleepy eyes, scarce marvelling, 
I saw her, standing naked in the lamp- 
light, 
Beneath the huge tent's cavernous canopy, 
Against the throng of elephants and camels 
That champed unwondering in the golden 

dusk, 
Moon-white Diana, mettled Artemis — 
Her body, quick and tense as her own bow- 
string — 
Her spirit, an arrow barbed and strung for 

flight— 

[1281 



HOOPS 



White snow-flakes melting on her night-black 

hair, 
And on her glistening breasts and supple 

thighs : 
Her red lips parted, her keen eyes alive 
With fierce, far-ranging hungers of the 

chase 
Over the hills of morn . . . The lantern 

guttered : 
And I was left alone in the outer darkness 
Among the champing elephants and camels. 
And I'll be a camel -keeper to the end: 
Though never again my eyes . . . 

(Pause.) 

So, you can sleep, 
You merry Andrew, for all you missed your 
hoop. 

[ 129 ] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

It's just as well, perhaps. Now I can hold 
My secret to the end. Ah, here they come! 

(Six lads, between the ages of three and twelve, clad 
in pink tights covered with silver spangles, 
tumble into the tent.) 

The Eldest Boy 
Daddy, the bell's rung, and . . . 

Gentleman John 

He's snoozing sound. 
(To the youngest boy.) 

You just creep quietly, and take tight hold 
Of the crimson curls, and tug, and you will 

hear 
The purple pussies all caterwaul at once. 

19U 

[130] 



THOROUGHFARES 



[131] 



TO EDWARD MARSH 



[132 



SOLWAY FORD 

He greets you with a smile from friendly 

eyes; 
But never speaks, nor rises from his bed: 
Beneath the green night of the sea he lies, 
The whole world's waters weighing on his 

head. 

The empty wain made slowly over the sand; 
And he, with hands in pockets by the side 
Was trudging, deep in dream, the while he 

scanned 
With blue, unseeing eyes the far-off tide: 
When, stumbling in a hole, with startled 

neigh, 
His young horse reared; and, snatching at 

the rein, 

r 133 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

He slipped: the wheels crushed on him as he 

lay; 
Then, tilting over him, the lumbering wain 
Turned turtle as the plunging beast broke free, 
And made for home: and pinioned and half- 
dead 
He lay, and listened to the far-off sea; 
And seemed to hear it surging overhead 
Already; though 'twas full an hour or more 
Until high-tide, when Solway's shining flood 
Should sweep the shallow firth from shore 

to shore. 
He felt a salty tingle in his blood; 
And seemed to stifle, drowning. Then again, 
He knew that he must lie a lingering while 
Before the sea might close above his pain, 
Although the advancing waves had scarce a 

mile 

[134] 



SOL WAY FORD 



To travel, creeping nearer, inch by inch, 
With little runs and sallies over the sand. 
Cooped in the dark, he felt his body flinch 
From each chill wave as it drew nearer 

hand. 
He saw the froth of each oncoming crest; 
And felt the tugging of the ebb and flow, 
And waves already breaking over his breast; 
Though still far-off they murmured, faint 

and low; 
Yet, creeping nearer, inch by inch; and now 
He felt the cold drench of the drowning 

wave, 
And the salt cold of death on lips and brow; 
And sank, and sank . . . while still, as in a 

grave, 

In the close dark beneath the crushing cart, 

He lay, and listened to the far-off sea. 
[135] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Wave after wave was knocking at his heart, 
And swishing, swishing, swishing cease- 
lessly 
About the wain — cool waves that never 

reached 
His cracking lips, to slake his hell-hot 

thirst . . . 
Shrill in his ear a startled barn-owl 

screeched . . . 
He smelt the smell of oil-cake . . . when 

there burst, 
Through the big barn's wide-open door, the 

sea — 
The whole sea sweeping on him with a 

roar . . . 
He clutched a falling rafter, dizzily . . . 
Then sank through drowning deeps, to rise 

no more. 

[1361 



SOLWAY FORD 



Down, ever down, a hundred years he sank 
Through cold green death, ten thousand 

fathom deep. 
His fiery lips deep draughts of cold sea drank 
That filled his body with strange icy sleep, 
Until he felt no longer that numb ache, 
The dead-weight lifted from his legs at last: 
And yet, he gazed with wondering eyes awake 
Up the green glassy gloom through which he 

passed : 
And saw, far overhead, the keels of ships 
Grow small and smaller, dwindling out of 

sight; 
And watched the bubbles rising from his 

lips; 
And silver salmon swimming in green night; 



And queer big, golden bream with scarlet fins 

dfie 

137] 



And emerald eyes and fiery-flashing tails; 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Enormous eels with purple-spotted skins; 
And mammoth unknown fish with sapphire 

scales 
That bore down on him with red jaws agape, 
Like yawning furnaces of blinding heat; 
And when it seemed to him as though escape 
From those hell-mouths were hopeless, his 

bare feet 
Touched bottom : and he lay down in his place 
Among the dreamless legion of the drowned, 
The calm of deeps unsounded on his face, 
And calm within his heart; while all around 
Upon the midmost ocean's crystal floor 
The naked bodies of dead seamen lay, 
Dropped, sheer and clean, from hubbub, 

brawl and roar, 
To peace, too deep for any tide to sway. 

• • • • 

[138] 



SOLWAY FORD 



The little waves were lapping round the cart 
Already, when they rescued him from death. 
Life cannot touch the quiet of his heart 
To joy or sorrow, as, with easy breath, 
And smiling lips upon his back he lies, 
And never speaks, nor rises from his bed; 
Gazing through those green glooms with 

happy eyes, 
While gold and sapphire fish swim overhead. 



139] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

A CATCH FOR SINGING 

Said the Old Young Man to the Young Old 

Man: 
"Alack, and well-a-day!" 
Said the Young Old Man to the Old Young 

Man: 
"The cherry-tree's in flourish!" 

Said the Old Young Man to the Young Old 

Man: 
"The world is growing grey." 
Said the Young Old Man to the Old Young 

Man: 
"The cherry-tree's in flourish!" 

Said the Old Young Man to the Young Old 

Man: 

"Both flower and fruit decay." 
[140] 



A CATCH FOR SINGING 



Said the Young Old Man to the Old Young 

Man: 
"The cherry-tree's in flourish !" 

Said the Old Young Man to the Young Old 

Man: 
"Alack, and well-a-day! 
The world is growing grey: 
And flower and fruit decay. 
Beware Old Man, beware Old Man! 
For the end of life is nearing; 
And the grave yawns by the way . . ." 

Said the Young Old Man to the Old Young 

Man: 
"I'm a trifle hard of hearing; 
And can't catch a word you say . • • 
But the cherry-tree's in flourish!'* 

[141] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



GERANIUMS 

Stuck in a bottle on the window-sill, 
In the cold gaslight burning gaily red 
Against the luminous blue of London night, 
These flowers are mine: while somewhere out 

of sight 
In some black-throated alley's stench and 

heat, 
Oblivious of the racket of the street, 
A poor old weary woman lies in bed. 

Broken with lust and drink, blear-eyed and 

ill, 

Her battered bonnet nodding on her head, 
From a dark arch she clutched my sleeve 
and said: 

[142] 



GERANIUMS 



"I've sold no bunch to-day, nor touched a 

bite . . . 
Son, buy six-penn'orth; and 't will mean a 

bed." 

So, blazing gaily red 
Against the luminous deeps 
Of starless London night, 
They burn for my delight: 
While somewhere, snug in bed, 
A worn old woman sleeps. 

And yet to-morrow will these blooms be 

dead 
With all their lively beauty; and to-morrow 
May end the light lusts and the heavy sor- 
row 

Of that old body with the nodding head. 
[143] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

The last oath muttered, the last pint drained 

deep, 
She'll sink, as Cleopatra sank, to sleep; 
Nor need to barter blossoms for a bed. 



[144 J 



THE WHISPERERS 



THE WHISPERERS 

As beneath the moon I walked, 
Dog-at-heel my shadow stalked, 
Keeping ghostly company: 
And as we went gallantly 
Down the fell-road, dusty-white, 
Round us in the windy night 
Bracken, rushes, bent and heather 
Whispered ceaselessly together: 
"Would he ever journey more, 
Ever stride so carelessly, 
If he knew what lies before, 
And could see what we can see?" 

As I listened, cold with dread, 

Every hair upon my head 

Strained to hear them talk of me, 
[145] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Whispering, whispering ceaselessly: 
"Folly's fool the man must be, 
Surely, since, though where he goes 
He knows not, his shadow knows: 
And his secret shadow never 
Utters warning words, or ever 
Seeks to save him from his fate, 
Reckless, blindfold, and unknown, 
Till death tells him all, too late, 
And his shadow walks alone." 



[146] 



MABEL 



MABEL 

When Nigger Dick and Hell-for- Women 

slouched 
Into the taproom of the "Duck and De'il," 
The three Dalmatian pups slunk in at heel 
And down among the slushy saw-dust 

crouched; 
But Mabel would not leave the windy street 
For any gaudy tavern's reek and heat — 
Not she! for Mabel was no spotted dog 
To crawl among the steaming muddy feet 
Beneath a bench, and slumber like a log. 

And so she set her hoofs, and stayed outside, 
Though Hell-for- Women pushed the swing- 
door wide, 

[147] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And "Mabel, darling! Mabel, darling!" cried, 
And Nigger Dick thrust out his head and 

cursed 
Until his tongue burned with so hot a thirst, 
He turned and swore that he'd not split his 

throat 
To save the soul of any giddy goat. 

And then they left her, stubborn, wild and 

white, 
Snuffing the wet air of the windy night: 
And as she stood beneath a cold blue star 
That pierced the narrow strip of midnight sky 
Between the sleeping houses black and high, 
The glare and glitter of the reeking bar, 
And all the filth and squalor of the street 
Were blotted out . . . 

and she was lost between 
[148] 



MABEL 



The beetling crags of some deep, dark ra- 
vine 
In Andalusian solitudes of stone, 
A trembling, young, bewildered nanny-goat 
Within the cold blue heart of night alone . . . 
Until her ears pricked, tingling to a bleat, 
As, far above her, on a naked scar, 
The dews of morning dripping from his 

beard, 
Rejoicing in his strength the herd-king 

reared, 
Shaking the darkness from his shaggy coat. 



[149] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



THE VIXEN 

The vixen made for Deadman's Flow, 
Where not a mare but mine could go; 
And three hounds only splashed across 
The quaking hags of mile-wide moss; 
Only three of the deadbeat pack 
Scrambled out by Lone Maid's Slack, 
Bolter, Tough, and Ne'er-Die-Nell: 
But as they broke across the fell 
The tongue they gave was good to hear, 
Lively music, clean and clear, 
Such as only light-coats make, 
Hot-trod through the girth-deep brake. 

The vixen, draggled and nigh-spent, 

Twisted through the rimy bent 
[150] 



THE VIXEN 



Towards the Christhope Crags. I thought 
Every earth stopt — winded — caught . . . 
She's a mask and brush! When white 
A squall of snow swept all from sight; 
And hoodman-blind, Lightfoot and I 
Battled with the roaring sky. 

When southerly the snow had swept, 

Light broke, as the vixen crept 

Slinking up the stony brae. 

On a jutting scar she lay, 

Panting, lathered, while she eyed 

The hounds that took the stiff brae-side 

With yelping music, mad to kill. 

Then vixen, hounds and craggy hill 
Were smothered in a blinding swirl: 
And when it passed, there stood a girl 
[151] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Where the vixen late had lain, 
Smiling down, as I drew rein, 
Baffled; and the hounds, deadbeat, 
Fawning at the young girl's feet, 
Whimpered, cowed, where her red hair, 
Streaming to her ankles bare, 
Turned as white among the heather 
As the vixen's brush's feather. 

Flinching on my flinching mare, 

I watched her, gaping and astare, 

As she smiled with red lips wide, 

White fangs curving either side 

Of her lolling tongue . . . My thrapple 

Felt fear's fang: I strove, agrapple, 

Reeling . . . and again blind snow 

Closed like night. 

No man may know 
[152] 



THE VIXEN 



How Lightfoot won through Deadman's Flow 
And naught I knew till, in the glow 
Of home's wide door, my wife's kind face 
Smiled welcome. And for me the chase, 
The last chase, ended. Though the pack 
Through the blizzard struggled back, 
Gone were Bolter, Tough and Nell, 
Where, the vixen's self can tell! 
Long we sought them, high and low, 
By Christhope Crag and Deadman's Flow, 
By slack and syke and hag: and found 
Never bone nor hair of hound. 



[153] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



THE LODGING HOUSE 

When up the fretful, creaking stair, 
From floor to floor 
I creep 

On tiptoe, lest I wake from their first beauty- 
sleep 
The unknown lodgers lying, layer on layer, 
In the packed house from roof to basement 
Behind each landing's unseen door; 
The well-known steps are strangely steep, 
And the old stairway seems to soar, 
For my amazement 
Hung in air, 
Flight on flight 
Through pitchy night, 

Evermore and evermore. 
[154] 



THE LODGING HOUSE 



And when at last I stand outside 

My garret-door I hardly dare 

To open it, 

Lest, when I fling it wide, 

With candle lit 

And reading in my only chair, 

I find myself already there . . . 

And so must crawl back down the sheer 

black pit 
Of hell's own stair, 
Past lodgers sleeping layer on layer, 
To seek a home I know not where. 



[155] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



THE ICE 

Her day out from the workhouse-ward, she 

stands, 
A grey-haired woman, decent and precise, 
With prim black bonnet and neat paisley 

shawl, 
Among the other children by the stall; 
And with grave relish eats a penny ice. 

To wizened toothless gums, with quaking 

hands 
She holds it, shuddering with delicious cold; 
Nor heeds the jeering laughter of young men — 
The happiest, in her innocence, of all: 
For, while their insolent youth must soon 

grow old, 
She, who's been old, is now a child again. 

[156] 



WOOLGATHERING 



WOOLGATHERING 

Youth that goes woolgathering, 

Mooning and stargazing, 

Always finding everything 

Full of fresh amazing, 

Best will meet the moment's need 

When the dream brings forth the deed. 

He who keeps through all his days 

Open eyes of wonder 

Is the lord of skiey ways, 

And the earth thereunder: 

For the heart to do and sing 

Comes of youth's woolgathering. 



[157] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



THE TRAM 

Humming and creaking, the car down the 

street 
Lumbered and lurched through thunderous 

gloam 
Bearing us, spent and dumb with the heat, 
From office and counter and factory home: 

Sallow-faced clerks, genteel in black; 
Girls from the laundries, draggled and dank; 
Ruddy-faced labourers slouching slack; 
A broken actor, grizzled and lank; 

A mother with querulous babe on her lap; 
A schoolboy whistling under his breath; 
An old man crouched in a dreamless nap; 

A widow with eyes on the eyes of death; 

[158] 



THE TRAM 



A priest; a sailor with deepsea gaze; 
A soldier in scarlet with waxed moustache; 
A drunken trollop in velvet and lace; 
All silent in that tense dusk . . . when a 
flash 

Of lightning shivered the sultry gloom: 
With shattering brattle the whole sky fell 
About us, and rapt to a dazzling doom 
We glided on in a timeless spell, 

Unscathed through deluge and flying fire 
In a magical chariot of streaming glass, 
Cut off from our kind and the world's desire, 
Made one by the awe that had come to pass. 



[159 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



ON THE EMBANKMENT 

Down on the sunlit ebb, with the wind in her 

sails, and free 
Of cable and anchor, she swept rejoicing to 

seek the sea. 

And my eyes and my heart swept out with 

her, 
When at my elbow I felt a stir; 
And glancing down, I saw a lad — 
A shambling lad with shifty air, 
Weak-chested, stunted and ill-clad, 
Who watched her with unseeing stare. 

Dull, watery grey eyes he had 

Blinking beneath the slouching cap 
[160] 



ON THE EMBANKMENT 



That hid the low-browed, close-cropped head: 

And as I turned to him he said 

With hopeless hangdog air: 

"Just out of gaol three days ago; 

And I'll be back before I know: 

For nothing else is left a chap 

When once he's been inside . . . and 

so . . . 
Then dumb he stood with sightless stare 
Set on the sunlit, windy sail of the far-off 

boat that free 
Of cable and anchor still swept on rejoicing 

to seek the sea. 

My heart is a sunlit, windy sail: 
My heart is a hopeless lad in gaol. 



161 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



THE DANCERS 

'Neath a thorn as white as snow, 
High above the peacock sea, 
Hither, thither, to and fro, 
Merrily the grey rats go: 
To the song of ebb and flow 
Moving as to melody. 

Over gnarled roots, high and low, 
Twisting, frisking fearlessly, 
Six young hearts that needs must know, 
When the ragged thorn's in blow, 
Spring, and Spring's desire, and so 
Dance, above the dancing sea. 



[162 



THE WIND 



THE WIND 

To the lean, clean land, to the last cold 

height, 
You shall come with a whickering breath, 
From the depths of despair or the depths of 

delight, 
Stript stark to the wind of death. 

And whether you're sinless, or whether you've 

sinned, 
It's useless to whimper and whine; 
For the lean, clean blade of the cut-throat 

wind 
Will slit your weasand, and mine. 



[163 J 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

THE VINDICTIVE STAIRCASE 

OR 

THE REWARD OF INDUSTRY 

In a doomed and empty house in Hounds- 
ditch 
All night long I lie awake and listen, 
While all night the ghost of Mrs. Murphy 
Tiptoes up and down the wheezy staircase, 
Sweeling ghostly grease of quaking candles. 

Mrs. Murphy, timidest of spectres, 

You who were the cheeriest of charers, 

With the heart of innocence and only 

Torn between a zest for priests and porter, 

Mrs. Murphy of the ample bosom, — 

Suckler of a score or so of children 
[164] 



THE VINDICTIVE STAIRCASE 

("Children? Bless you! Why, I've buried 

six, Sir.") 
Who in forty years wore out three hus- 
bands 
And one everlasting, shameless bonnet 
Which I've little doubt was coffined with 

you— 
Mrs. Murphy, wherefor do you wander, 
Sweeling ghostly grease of quaking candles, 
Up and down the stairs you scrubbed so 

sorely, 
Scrubbed till they were naked, dank, and 
aching? 

Now that you are dead, is this their ven- 
geance? 
Recollecting all you made them suffer 

With your bristled brush and soapy water 
[1651 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

When you scrubbed them naked, dank and 
aching, 

Have they power to hold your ghostly foot- 
steps 

Chained as to an everlasting treadmill? 

Mrs. Murphy, think you 't would appease them 
If I rose now in my shivering nightshirt, 
Rose and told them how you, too, had suf- 
fered — 
You, their seeming tyrant, but their bond- 
slave — 
Toiling uncomplaining in their service, 
Till your knuckles and your knees were 

knotted 
Into writhing fires of red rheumatics, 
And how, in the end, 't was they who killed 

you? 

[166] 



THE VINDICTIVE STAIRCASE 

Even should their knots still harden to you, 
Bow your one and all-enduring bonnet 
Till your ear is level with my keyhole, 
While I whisper ghostly consolation: 
Know this house is marked out for the 

spoiler, 
Doomed to fall to Hobnails with his pickaxe; 
And its crazy staircase chopped to firewood, 
Splintered, bundled, burned to smoke and 

ashes, 
Soon shall perish, scattered to the fourwinds. 
Then, God rest your spirit, Mrs. Murphy! 

Yet, who knows! A staircase . . . Mrs. 

Murphy, 

God forbid that you be doomed to tiptoe 

Through eternity, a timid spectre, 

Sweeling ghostly grease of quaking candles, 
[167] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Up and down the spectre of a staircase, 
While all night I lie awake and listen 
In a damned and ghostly house in Hounds- 
ditch! 



[168 



RAGAMUFFINS 



RAGAMUFFINS 

Few folk like the wind's way; 
Fewer folk like mine, — 
Folk who rise at nine, 
Who live to drudge and dine, 
Who never see the starry light, 
And sleep in the same bed each night 
Under the same roof; 
When the rascal wind and I 
Happen to be gadding by, 
Gentlefolk, so fat and fine 
Beg to hold aloof, 

Leaving us to starlit beds, and husks amid 
the swine. 

Few folk like the wind's song, 
And fewer folk like mine, — 
[1691 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Folk who trudge the trodden way, 
Who keep the track and never stray, 
Who think the sun's for making hay, — 
Folk who cannot dance or play, 
Faultless folk and fine. 
Yet, the wind and I are gay, 
In our ragamuffin way, 
Singing, storm or shine. 



170] 



THE ALARUM 



THE ALARUM 

Stark to the skin, I crawled a knife-edged 

blade 
Of melting ice above the pit of Hell, 
Flame-licked and scorched; yet strangely un- 
dismayed, 
Till on my ears a dizzy clamour fell, 
And dropt me sheer . . . and, wakening in 

my bed, 
I saw the sky, beyond the chimneys red 
And heard the crazy clanging of a bell. 



[171 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



IN A RESTAURANT 

He wears a red rose in his buttonhole, 

A city-clerk on Sunday dining out: 

And as the music surges over the din 

The heady quavering of the violin 

Sings through his blood, and puts old cares 

to rout, 
And tingles, quickening, through his shrunken 

soul, 

Till he forgets his ledgers, and the prim 

Black, crabbed figures, and the qualmy smell 

Of ink and musty leather and leadglaze, 

As, in eternities of Summer days, 

He dives through shivering waves, or rides 

the swell 

On rose-red seas of melody aswim. 
[172] 



THE GREETING 



THE GREETING 

"What fettle, mate?" to me he said 

As he went by 

With lifted head 

And laughing eye, 

Where, black against the dawning red, 

The pit-heaps cut the sky: 

"What fettle, mate?" 

"What fettle, mate?" to him I said, 

As he went by 

With shrouded head 

And darkened eye, 

Borne homeward by his marrows, dead 

Beneath the noonday sky : 

"What fettle, mate?" 

[173] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



WHEELS 

To safety of the curb he thrust the crone: 
When a shaft took him in the back, and prone 
He tumbled heavily, but all unheard 
Amid the scurry of wheels that crashed and 

whirred 
About his senseless head — his helmet crushed 
Like crumpled paper by a car that rushed 
Upon him unaware. And as he lay 
He heard again the wheels he'd heard all day 
About him on point-duty . . . only now 
Each red-hot wheel ran searing over his 

brow — 

A sizzling star with hub and spokes and tyre 

One monstrous Catherine-wheel of sparking 

fire 

[174] 



WHEELS 



Whirring down windy tunnels of the 

night . . . 
That Catherine-wheel, somehow it will not 

light- 
Fixed to the broken paling; and the pin 
Pricks the boy's finger as he jabs it in: 
He sucks the salty blood — the spiteful thing 
Fires, whizzing, sputtering sparks: he feels 

them sting 
His wincing cheek; and, on the damp night- 
air, 
The stench of burnt saltpetre and singed 

hair . . . 
While still he lies and listens without fear 
To the loud traffic rumbling in his ear — 
Wheels rumbling in his ear, and through his 

brain 
For evermore, a never-ending train 
[175] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Of scarlet postal-vans that whirl one red 
Perpetual hot procession through his head — 
His head that's just a clanking, clattering 

mill 
Of grinding wheels . . . and down an endless 

hill 
After his hoop he runs, a little lad, 
Barefooted 'neath the stars, in nightshirt 

clad — 
And stumbles into bed, the stars all gone 
Though in his head the hoop keeps running 

on 
And on and on: his head grown big and wide 
Holds all the windy night and stars in- 
side . . . 
And still within a hair's breadth of his ear 
The crunch and gride of wheels rings sharp 

and clear — 

[1761 



WHEELS 



Huge lumbering wagons, crusted axle-deep 
With country marl, their drivers half-asleep 
Against green toppling mounds of cab- 
bages 
Still crisp with dewy airs, or stacks of 

cheese 
Smelling of Arcady, till all the sky 
In clouds of cheese and cabbages rolls by — 
Great golden cheeses wheeling through the 

night, \ 

And giant cabbages of emerald light 
That tumble after, scattering crystal drops . . . 
While in his ear the grinding never stops — 
Wheels grinding asphalt . . . then a high- 
piled wain 
Of mignonette in boxes . . . and again, 
A baby at his father's cottage-door 

He toddles, treading on his pinafore, 

[1771 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And tumbles headlong in a bed of bloom, 
Half-smothered in the deep, sweet honeyed 

gloom 
Of crushed, wet blossom, and the hum of 

bees — 
Big bumble-bees that buzz through flowery 

trees — 
Grows furious . . . changing to a roar of 

wheels 
And honk of hooting horns: and now he 

feels 
That all the cars in London filled with 

light 
Are bearing down upon him through the 

night, 

As out of hall and theatre there pour 

White-shouldered women, ever more and 

more, 

[178] 



WHEELS 



Bright-eyed, with flashing teeth, borne in a 

throng 
Of purring, glittering cars, ten thousand 

strong : 
Each drowsy dame, and eager chattering lass 
Laughing unheard within her box of glass . . . 
And then great darkness, and a clanging bell — 
Clanging beneath the hollow dome of hell 
Aglow like burnished copper; and a roar 
Of wheels and wheels and wheels for ever- 
more, 
As engine after engine crashes by 
With clank and rattle under that red sky 
Dropping a trail of burning coals behind, 
That scorch his eyeballs till he lies half -blind, 
Smouldering to cinder in a vasty night 
Of wheeling worlds and stars in whirring 
flight, 

[1791 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

And suns that blaze in thunderous fury on 

For ever and for ever, yet are gone 

Ere he can gasp to see them . . . head to 

heels 
Slung round a monstrous red-hot hub, that 

wheels 
Across infinity, with spokes of fire 
That dwindle slowly till the shrinking tyre 
Is clamped like aching ice about his head . . . 

He smells clean acid smells: and safe in bed 

He wakens in a lime-washed ward, to hear 

Somebody moaning almost in his ear, 

And knows that it's himself that moans: and 

then, 

Battling his way back to the world of men, 

He sees with leaden eyelids opening wide, 

His young wife gravely knitting by his side. 
[180] 



PROMETHEUS 



PROMETHEUS 

All day beneath the bleak, indifferent skies, 
Broken and blind, a shivering bag of bones, 
He trudges over icy paving stones, 
And "Matches! Matches! Matches! 
Matches!" cries. 

And now beneath the dismal, dripping night 
And shadowed by a deeper night, he stands: 
And yet he holds within his palsied hands 
Quick fire enough to set his world alight. 



[181] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



NIGHT 

Suddenly kindling the skylight's pitchy 

square, 
The eyes of a cat, sinister, glassy and green, 
Caught by a trick of the light in a senseless 

stare . . . 
And the powers of the older night, abhorrent, 

obscene, 
Each from his den of darkness and loathly 

lair, 
Slink to my bedside, and gibber and mow, 

and fill 
My heart with the Fear of the Fen and the 

Dread of the Hill 

And the Terror that stalks by night through 

the Wood of Doom. 
[182] 



NIGHT 



And things that are headless and nameless 

throng the room: 
The cold webbed fingers of witches are in 

my hair: 
The clammy lips of the warlock are clenched 

to mine: 
The Eel of the bottomless pit of Deadman's 

Bog 
Slithers an icy spiral about my spine: 
A corpse-clutch freezes my midriff, the foul 

reek of Fog . . . 

When my hand is licked by the warm wet 

tongue of my dog; 
The eyes blink out; and Horror slinks back 

to her den; 
And I breathe again. 



183] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH 

Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree, 

His scarlet tunic burns; 

And livelier than the green sap's mantling 

glee 
The Spring fire tingles through him headily 
As quivering he turns 

And stammers out the old amazing tale 

Of youth and April weather; 

While she, with half -breathed jests that, sob- 
bing, fail, 

Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and 
pale, 

Beneath her purple feather. 



184 



A VISION IN A TEA-SHOP 



A VISION IN A TEA-SHOP 

His hair lit up the tea-shop like a fire, 
The naked flame of youth made manifest — 
Young hunger's unappeasable desire 
Devouring cakes and cream with eager zest: 

While cheek by jowl, an old man, bald and 
blind 

And peaked and withered as a waning moon, 

With toothless, mumbling gums, and wan- 
dering mind 

Supped barley-water from a tremulous spoon. 

I turned a moment: and the man was gone: 

And as I looked upon the red-haired boy, 

About him in a blinding glory shone 

The sons of morning singing together for joy. 
[185 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



LINES 

Addressed to the Spectre of an Elderly Gen- 
tleman, recently demised, Whom the 
Author had once observed performing 
a Benevolent Office in the Vicinity of 
Holborn, W. C. 

I saw you, seated on a horse's head, 
While the blaspheming carter cut the traces, 
Obese, white-waistcoated, and newly fed, 
Through bland, indifferent monocle surveying 
The gaping circle of indifferent faces. 

And now, the news has come that you are 

dead, 

I see you, while they cut the tangled traces, 
[1861 



LINES 



On your own hearse's fallen horse's head, 
Through bland, indifferent monocle survey- 
ing 
The unseeing circle of funereal faces. 



[187] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



THE DREADNOUGHT 

Breasting the tide of the traffic, the "Dread- 
nought" comes, 

Be-ribboned and gay, the first of the holiday 
brakes, 

Brimful of broken old women, a parish's 
mothers, 

Bearing them out for the day from grey al- 
leys and slums — 

A day in the forest of Epping grown green 
for their sakes. 

Listless and stolid they crouch, everlastingly 

tired, 
Mere bundles of patience outworn, half -deaf 

and half-blind, 

[188] 



THE DREADNOUGHT 



Save only one apple-cheeked grannie, more 
brisk than the others, 

Who, remembering, with youth in her eyes 
and the old dreams desired, 

Sits kissing her hand to the drivers who fol- 
low behind. 



f 189 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 



SIGHT 

By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting my 

eyes 
On colours ripe and rich for the heart's de- 
sire — 
Tomatoes, redder than Krakatoa's fire, 
Oranges like old sunsets over Tyre, 
And apples golden-green as the glades of 
Paradise. 

And as I lingered, lost in divine delight, 
My heart thanked God for the goodly gift 

of sight 
And all youth's lively senses keen and 

quick . . . 

When suddenly, behind me in the night, 

I heard the tapping of a blind man's stick. 
[190] 



THE GORSE 



THE GORSE 

In dream, again within the clean, cold hell 
Of glazed and aching silence he was trapped; 
And, closing in, the blank walls of his cell 
Crushed stifling on him . . . when the 

bracken snapped, 
Caught in his clutching fingers: and he lay- 
Awake upon his back among the fern, 
With free eyes travelling the wide blue day 
Unhindered, unremembering; while a burn 
Tinkled and gurgled somewhere out of sight, 
Unheard of him, till, suddenly aware 
Of its cold music, shivering in the light, 
He raised himself; and with far-ranging stare 
Looked all about him: and, with dazed eyes 

wide 

[191] 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

Saw, still as in a numb, unreal dream, 
Black figures scouring a far hill-side, 
With now and then a sunlit rifle's gleam; 
And knew the hunt was hot upon his track: 
Yet hardly seemed to mind, somehow, just 

then . . . 
But kept on wondering why they looked so 

black 
On that hot hillside, all those little men 
Who scurried round like beetles — twelve, all 

told . . . 
He counted them twice over; and began 
A third time reckoning them, but could not 

hold 

His starved wits to the business, while they ran 

So brokenly, and always stuck at "five" . . . 

And "One, two, three, four, five" a dozen 

times 

[192] 



THE GORSE 



He muttered . . . "Can you catch a fish 

alive?" 
Sang mocking echoes of old nursery-rhymes 
Through the strained, tingling hollow of his 

head. 
And now almost remembering, he was stirred 
To pity them; and wondered if they'd fed 
Since he had, or if, ever since they'd heard 
Two nights ago the sudden signal-gun 
That raised alarm of his escape, they, too, 
Had fasted in the wilderness, and run 
With nothing but the thirsty wind to -chew, 
And nothing in their bellies but a fill 
Of cold peat-water, till their heads were 

light . . . 

The crackling of a rifle on the hill 

Rang in his ears; and stung to headlong flight, 

[193 1 



BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES 

He started to his feet; and through the brake 
He plunged in panic, heedless of the sun 
That burned his cropped head to a red-hot 

ache 
Still racked with crackling echoes of the 

gun. 
Then suddenly the sun-enkindled fire 
Of gorse upon the moor-top caught his eye; 
And that gold glow held all his heart's desire, 
As, like a witless, flame-bewildered fly, 
He blundered towards the league-wide yellow 

blaze, 
And tumbled headlong on the spikes of 

bloom; 
And rising, bruised and bleeding and adaze, 
Struggled through clutching spines: the dense 

sweet fume 

Of nutty, acrid scent like poison stealing 
[1941 



THE GORSE 



Through his hot blood: the bristling yellow 

glare 
Spiking his eyes with fire, till he went reeling, 
Stifling and blinded, on — and did not care 
Though he were taken — wandering round 

and round, 
"Jerusalem the Golden" quavering shrill, 
Changing his tune to "Tommy Tiddler's 

Ground": 
Till, just a lost child on that dazzling hill, 
Bewildered in a glittering golden maze 
Of stinging scented fire, he dropped, quite 

done, 
A shrivelling wisp within a world ablaze 
Beneath a blinding sky, one blaze of sun. 



1908-U 



195] 



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